.Us 


'K^^^2^m^mM2S^3^M3^i!X^SXM^ 
LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OF 

GEORGE  MOREY  RICHARDSON. 

Received,  August,  1898. 
^Accession  No./^  //?/        Class  No. 


feiaaaa^^^ 


THE 


CHO        LUB, 


And  Other  Literary  Diversions. 


BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


BOSTO  N : 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1876. 


COPYRIGHT,  1872  AND  1876. 
BY  JAMES    R.  OSGOOD    &    CO. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 
•VT:  ~ 


PAGE 
INTRODUCTION    .W  (/*((* v 

NIGHT  THE  FIRST.         ......  11 

MORRIS,  POE,  BROWNING. 

NIGHT  THE  SECOND  .......       34 

MRS.  SIGOURNEY,  KEATS,  SWINBURNE,  EMERSON,  STEDMAN. 

NIGHT  THE  THIRD 52 

BAKRY  CORNWALL,  WHITTIER,  ROSSETTI,  ALDKICH. 

NIGHT  THE  FOURTH .72 

BRYANT,  HOLMES,  WILLIS,  TENNYSON. 

NIGHT  THE  FIFTH 93 

TUCKERMAN,  LONGFELLOW,  STODDARD,  MRS.  STODDARD. 

NIGHT  THE  SIXTH 113 

LOWELL,  BAYARD  TAYLOR,  MRS.  BROWNING,  BOKER. 

NIGHT  THE  SEVENTH 132 

JEAN  INGELOW,  BUCHANAN  READ,  JULTA  WARD  HOWE, 
PIATT,  WILLIAM  WINTER,  MRS.  PIATT. 


IV  CONTENTS. 


NIGHT  THE  EIGHTH 150 

WALT  WHITMAN,   BRET    HAUTE,    JOHN    HAY,  JOAQUIN 
MILLKR. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS 168 

A  REVIEW 175 

PARADISE  DISCOVERED     .         .         .        .        .        .     186 


INTRODUCTION. 


j]HE  papers  which  make  up  tins  volume  are 
sufficiently  described  by  its  title.  They 
are  literary  "Diversions,"  —  the  product 
of  a  good  many  random  hours  of  thought 
less  (or,  at  least,  only  half-thoughtful)  recreation  and 
amusement,  —  nothing  else.  More  than  as  many 
burlesque  imitations  of  authors,  living  or  dead,  as 
are  here  contained,  had  been  written  before  any 
thought  of  publication  was  suggested.  The  fact  that 
there  was  no  such  original  design  requires  that  the 
form  in  which  the  diversions  are  now  presented 
should  be  explained  to  the  reader. 

The  habit  originated,  very  much  as  it  is  described 
in  the  "  First  Evening,"  at  least  twenty  years  ago, 
in  a  small  private  circle.  Three  or  four  young 
authors  found  not  only  amusement,  but  an  agree 
able  relaxation  from  their  graver  tasks,  in  drawing 
names  and  also  subjects  as  from  a  lottery- wheel,  and 
improvising  imitations  of  older  and  more  renowned 
poets.  Nothing  was  further  from  their  minds  than 
ridicule,  or  even  incidental  disparagement,  of  the 


VI  INTRODUCTION. 

latter,  many  of  whom  were  not  only  recognized,  but 
genuinely  revered,  by  all.  One  form  of  intellectual 
diversion  gradually  led  to  another :  the  parodies 
alternated  with  the  filling  up  of  end-rhymes  (usually 
of  the  most  difficult  and  incongruous  character), 
with  the  writing  of  double  or  concealed  acrostics, 
spurious  quotations  from  various  languages,  and 
whatever  else  could  be  devised  by  the  ingenuity  of 
the  company.  I  may  mention  that  some  years  before 
Mr.  Lewis  Carroll  delighted  all  lovers  of  nonsense 
with  his  ballad  of  "  The  Jabberwock,"  we  tried  pre 
cisely  the  same  experiment  of  introducing  invented 
words.  The  following  four  lines  may  serve  as  a 
specimen  of  one  attempt :  — 

"  Smitten  by  harsh,  transcetic  thuds  of  shame, 
My  squelgence  fades  :  I  mogri  fy  my  blame  : 
The  lupkin  world,  that  leaves  me  yole  arid  blant, 
Denies  my  affligance  with  looks  askaut !  " 

Of  course,  nothing  further  than  amusing  nonsense 
was  ever  contemplated.  A  few  of  the  imitations  found 
their  way  into  print,  but  they  were  comparatively  unno 
ticed  in  the  flood  of  burlesque  with  which  the  public 
was  then  supplied  from  many  other  quarters.  As  a 
participant,  for  several  years,  in  a  variety  of  fun  which 
was  certainly  harmless  so  long  as  it  remained  private, 
I  was  of  the  opinion  that  very  little  could  be  made 
public  without  some  accompanying  explanation.  The 
idea  of  setting  the  imitations  in  a  framework  of  dia 
logue  which  should  represent  various  forms  of  literary 


INTRODUCTION.  Vll 

taste  and  opinion  seemed,  first,  to  make  the  publica 
tion  possible.  But  when  I  came  to  examine  the 
scattered  leaves  with  a  view  to  this  end,  I  was  at 
once  struck  with  their  inadequacy  to  the  purpose  of 
comical  illustration.  Removed  from  the  genial  atmos 
phere  in  which  they  had  spontaneously  grown,  many 
of  them  seemed  withered  and  insipid.  Many  others 
were  simply  parodies  of  particular  poems,  instead  of 
being  burlesque  reproductions  of  an  author's  manner 
and  diction.  The  plan  demanded  that  they  should 
be  rewritten,  in  consonance  with  the  governing  con 
ception  of  the  work,  as  a  whole.  This  was  accord 
ingly  done ;  and  not  more  than  three  or  four  of  the 
following  poems  belong  to  the  original  private  "  diver 
sions." 

There  is  scarcely  a  more  hazardous  experiment 
which  an  author  can  make,  than  to  attempt  to  draw 
amusement  from  the  intellectual  characteristics  of  his 
contemporaries.  If  I  had  riot  been  firmly  convinced 
that  the  absence  of  any  conscious  unfriendliness  on 
my  part  must  make  itself  evident  to  many  who  were 
old  and  honored  friends,  I  never  should  have  dared 
it.  In  addition  to  this,  I  ventured  on  a  number  of 
private  tests,  and  was  further  assured  by  finding  that 
the  subject  of  each  travesty  accepted  his  share  with 
the  greatest  good-nature.  I  have  yet  to  learn  that 
the  publication  has  given  other  than  a  very  slight 
momentary  annoyance,  and  that  only  in  one  or  two 
cases.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  same  experiment 
could  be  made  in  any  of  the  other  arts,  with  a  aim- 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

ilar  result.  I  am  satisfied  that  opera-singers,  actors, 
composers,  sculptors,  painters,  theologians  even,  have 
a  better  right  to  be  called  the  genus  irritabile  than 
the  literary  guild.  The  more  devotedly  an  author 
aspires  towards  his  ideal  of  achievement,  the  less 
he  is  concerned  with  all  transitory  estimates  of  his 
work.  Looking  back  now,  four  years  since  the  pa 
pers  appeared  in  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly,"  I  see  more 
clearly  how  much  was  ventured,  and  I  am  profoundly 
grateful  to  find  that  no  serious  wound  was  given. 

Some  of  my  friends  have  suggested  that  the  char 
acters  introduced  in  the  Echo  Club,  and  the  course  of 
their  dialogues,  might  have  been  made  more  interest 
ing  to  the  reader.  This  is  probably  true;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  all  work  of  the  kind  has  but  an 
ephemeral  interest,  and  the  leisure  of  mind  which 
produced  it  seems  now  so  remote,  so  beyond  recall, 
that  I  have  not  undertaken  to  make  any  change. 
The  four  principal  characters  were  designed  to  repre 
sent  classes,  not  individuals.  In  "  The  Ancient,"  I 
endeavored  to  express  something  of  the  calmer  judi 
cial  temper,  in  literary  matters,  which  comes  from 
age  and  liberal  study.  The  name  of  "  Zoi'lus  "  (the 
Homeromastix,  or  "  Scourge  of  Homer  ")  explains  his 
place :  he  is  the  carping,  cynical,  unconsciously  arro 
gant  critic,  —  though  these  qualities  could  not  be 
given  with  entire  dramatic  truth.  "  Galahad  "  is  the 
young,  sensational,  impressive  element  in  the  reading 
public ;  admiration,  in  him,  is  almost  equivalent  to 
adoration.  "  The  Gannet  "  —  a  name  suggested  by  a 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

poem  written  by  a  member  of  the  class,  long  ago  — 
represents  brilliancy  without  literary  principle,  the 
love  of  technical  effect,  regardless  of  the  intellectual 
conception  of  a  work.  This  is  a  class  which  is 
always  large,  and  always  more  or  less  successful  — 
for  a  time.  It  was  not  necessary  that  each  character 
should  keep  rigidly  within  the  limits  of  his  part,  and 
thus  each  of  them  may  be  occasionally  inconsistent. 
I  need  hardly  explain  that  the  author's  own  views, 
though  scattered  here  and  there  through  the  dia 
logues,  together  with  their  exact  opposites,  are  not 
specially  expressed  by  any  one  of  the  four  persons. 

The  papers  were  meant  to  be  anonymous,  but  the 
secret  was  soon  betrayed,  —  not,  however,  before 
some  amusing  illustrations  of  the  personal  character 
of  much  so-called  criticism  were  furnished.  The 
comments  of  certain  writers  for  the  press,  before  and 
after  the  authorship  was  known,  formed  a  curious 
and  instructive  contrast.  In  London,  the  papers 
were  collected  and  published  as  a  volume,  more  than 
two  years  ago; 'and  there  may  be  possibly  enough 
diversion  still  lingering  about  them  to  satisfy  the 
indolent  mood  of  a  summer  afternoon.  More  than 
this  is  not  intended  by  their  appearance  in  the  pres 
ent  form. 

I  have  added  some  other  specimens  of  the  same 
kind  of  fooling,  partly  in  order  to  put  everything  of 
the  sort  in  its  place  and  leave  it  behind  me,  and 
partly  because  a  good  many  personal  friends  have 
been  amused,  and  hence  some  unknown  friends  may 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

also  be.  This  prelude  is  no  doubt  longer  than  neces 
sary  ;  but  on  completing  and  offering  to  others  a 
diversion  which  will  never  be  repeated,  one  may  be 
pardoned  for  an  over-scrupulousness  in  explaining 
circumstances  and  justifying  motives. 

B.  T. 
NEW  YORK,  June,  1876. 


U  IN  1  V  1 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 


NIGHT   THE  FIRST. 

F  it  were  not  that  the  public  cherishes  rather 
singular  and  fluctuating  notions  with  regard 
to  the  private  and  familiar  intercourse  of  au 
thors,  the  reports  which  follow  would  need  no 
prologue.  But  between  the  two  classes  of  readers,  one 
of  which  innocently  supposes  T.  Percy  Jones  to  be  the 
strange  and  terrible  being  whom  they  find  represented  in 
his  "Firmilian,"  while  the  other,  having  discovered,  by 
a  few  startling  disillusions,  that  the  race  of  authors  is 
Janus-faced,  is  sure  that  T.  Percy  Jones  is  the  exact 
opposite  of  his  poetical  self,  there  has  arisen  a  confusion 
which  it  may  be  well  to  correct. 

The  authors  themselves,  I  am  aware,  are  chiefly  re 
sponsible  for  these  opposite  impressions.  When  Joaquin 
Miller  at  Niagara,  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  American 
precipice,  kisses  his  hands  grandly  to  Canada,  exclaiming, 
"  England,  I  thank  you  ! "  or  when  Martin  Farquhar 
Tupper,  in  a  speech  at  New  York,  cries  out  with  noble 


12  DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

magnanimity,  "America,  be  not  afraid,  /  will  protect 
you ! "  the  public  might  reasonably  expect  to  find  all 
poets  visibly  trailing  their  mantles  in  our  streets.  But 
when  an  eager  listener,  stealing  behind  Irving  and  Hal- 
leek  at  an  evening  party,  found  them  talking  of —  shoe- 
leather!  and  a  breathless  devotee  of  Thackeray,  sitting 
opposite  to  him  at  the  dinner-table,  saw  those  Delphian 
lips  unclose  only  to  utter  the  words,  "Another  potato,  if 
you  please  !  "  —  they  had  revelations  which  might  cast  a 
dreadful  suspicion  over  the  nature  of  the  whole  tribe  of 
authors. 

I  would  not  have  the  reader  imagine  that  the  members 
of  the  Echo  Club  are  represented  by  either  of  these  ex 
tremes.  They  are  authors,  of  different  ages  and  very 
unequal  places  in  public  estimation.  It  would  never 
occur  to  them  to  seat  themselves  on  self-constructed 
pyramids,  and  speak  as  if  The  Ages  were  listening  ;  yet, 
like  their  brethren  of  all  lands  and  all  times,  the  staple 
of  their  talk  is  literature.  What  Englishmen  call  "  the 
shop,"  is  an  inevitable  feature  of  their  conversation. 
They  can  never  come  together  without  discussing  the 
literary  news  of  the  day,  the  qualities  of  prominent 
authors,  living  or  dead,  and  sometimes  their  own.  How 
ever  the  enlightened  listener  might  smile  at  the  positive- 
ness  of  their  opinions,  and  the  contradictions  into  which 
they  are  sometimes  led  in  the  lawless  play  and  keen  clash 
of  the  lighter  intellect,  he  could  not  fail  to  recognize  the 
sovereign  importance  they  attach  to  their  art.  Without 
lifting  from  their  intercourse  that  last  veil  of  mystery, 
behind  which  only  equals  are  permitted  to  pass,  1  may 
safely  try  to  report  the  mixture  of  sport  and  earnest,  of 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  13 

satire  and  enthusiasm,  of  irreverent  audacity  and  pure 
aspiration,  which  met  and  mingled  at  their  meetings.  If 
the  reader  cannot  immediately  separate  these  elements,  it 
is  no  fault  of  mine.  He  is  most  desirous,  I  know,  to  be 
present  at  the  private  diversions  of  a  small  society  of  au 
thors,  and  to  hear  them  talk  as  they  are  wont  to  talk 
when  the  wise  heads  of  the  world  are  out  of  ear-shot. 

The  character  which  the  society  assumed  for  a  short 
time  was  entirely  accidental.  As  one  of  the  Chorus,  I 
was  present  at  the  first  meeting,  and  of  course  I  never 
failed  afterwards.  The  four  authors  who  furnished  our 
entertainment  were  not  aware  that  I  had  written  down, 
from  memory,  the  substance  of  the  conversations,  until 
our  evenings  came  to  an  end;  and  I  have  had  some  diffi 
culty  in  obtaining  their  permission  to  publish  my  reports. 
The  Ancient  and  Galahad  feared  that  certain  poets  whom 
they  delight  to  honor  might  be  annoyed,  not  so  much  at  the 
sportive  imitation  of  their  manner,  as  at  the  possible  mis 
conception  of  its  purpose  by  the  public.  But  Zoilus  and 
the  Gannet  agreed  with  me,  that  where  no  harm  is  meant 
none  can  be  inflicted ;  that  the  literature  of  our  day  is  in 
a  sad  state  of  bewilderment  and  confusion,  and  that  a 
few  effervescing  powders  would  perhaps  soothe  a  public 
stomach  which  has  been  overdosed  with  startling  ef 
fects. 

At  last  the  Ancient  said  :  "  So  be  it,  then !  Take  the 
poems,  but  don't  bring  your  manuscript  to  us  for  correc 
tion  !  I  am  quite  sure  you  have  often  reported  us 
falsely,  and  if  our  masks  of  names  are  pulled  off,  we 
will  have  that  defence.3' 

I  have  only  to  add  that  the  three  or  four  gentlemen 


14     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

comprising  the  Chorus  are  not  authors  by  profession. 
The  Ancient  is  in  the  habit  of  dividing  the  race  of  artists 
into  active  and  passive,  — the  latter  possessing  the  artis 
tic  temperament,  the  tastes,  the  delights,  the  instincts  of 
the  race, —  everything,  except  that  creative  gadfly  which 
stings  to  expression.  In  every  quality  except  production 
they  are  the  equals  of  the  producers,  he  says ;  and  they 
are  quite  as  necessary  to  the  world  as  the  active  artists, 
since  they  are  the  first  to  recognize  the  good  points  of 
the  latter,  to  strengthen  them  with  warm  and  intelligent 
sympathy,  and  to  commend  them  to  the  slower  percep 
tions  and  more  uncertain  tastes  of  the  mass  of  readers. 
I  am  suYc,  at  least,  that  our  presence  and  participation 
in  the  amusements  was  a  gentle  stimulus  to  the  principal 
actors.  We  were  their  enthusiastic  audience,  and  kept 
them  fresh  and  warm  to  their  work.  I  do  not  record 
our  share  in  the  conversation,  for  there  is  sufficient  di 
versity  of  opinion  without  it ;  and  I  made  no  notes  of  it 
at  the  time.  —  THE  NAMELESS  REPOKTEII. 

In  the  rear  of  Karl  Schafer's  lager-beer  cellar  and  res 
taurant —  which  every  one  knows  is  but  a  block  from  the 
central  part  of  Broadway  —  there  is  a  small  room,  with 
a  vaulted  ceiling,  which  Karl  calls  his  Lowenyruie,  or 
Lions'  Den.  Here,  in  their  Bohemian  days,  Zoilus  and  the 
Gannet  had  been  accustomed  to  meet  to  discuss  literary 
projects,  and  read  fragments  of  manuscript  to  each  other. 
The  Chorus,  the  Ancient,  and  young  Galahad  gradually 
fell  into  the  same  habit,  and  thus  a  little  circle  of  six, 
seven,  or  eight  members  came  to  be  formed.  The  room 
could  comfortably  contain  no  more :  it  was  quiet,  with  a 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  15 

dim,  smoky,  confidential  atmosphere,  and  suggested  Aucr- 
bach's  Cellar  to  the  Ancient,  who  had  been  in  Leipzig. 

Here,  authors,  books,  magazines,  and  newspapers 
were  talked  about ;  sometimes  a  manuscript"  poem  was 
read  by  its  writer  ;  while  mild  potations  of  beer  and  the 
dreamy  breath  of  cigars  delayed  the  nervousj  fidgety, 
clattering-footed  American  Hours.  One  night  they 
chanced  upon  a  discussion  of  Morris's  "  Earthly  Para- ' 
disc,"  which  Galahad  rapturously  admired,  while  the  An 
cient  continued  to  draw  him  out,  at  first  by  guarded  praise, 
then  by  critical  objections  to  the  passages  which  Gala 
had  quoted.  The  conversation  finally  took  this  turn :  — 

GALAHAD.  Indeed,  you  are  not  just !  Tell  me,  have 
you  read  the  whole  work  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Yes :  I  had  it  with  me  on  my  last 
trip  to  Havana,  and  read  all  three  volumes  under  the 
most  favorable  auspices,  —  lying  on  deck  in  the  shadow 
of  a  sail,  with  the  palms  and  mangroves  of  the  Bahamas 
floating  past,  in  the  distance.  Just  so  I  floated  through 
the  narrative  poems,  one  after  the  other,  admiring  the 
story-teller's  art,  heartily  enjoying  many  passages,  accept 
ing  even  the  unnecessary  quaintness  of  the  speech,  and 
at  first  disposed  to  say,  "  Here  is  a  genuine  poet ! " 
But  I  was  conscious  of  a  lack  of  something,  which,  in  my 
lazy  mood,  I  did  not  attempt  to  analyze.  When  the 
lines  and  scenes  and  characters  began  to  fade  in  my 
mind  (which  they  did  almost  immediately),  I  found  that 
the  final  impression  which  the  work  left  behind  was  very 
much  like  the  Hades  of  the  Greeks, — a  gray,  misty, 
cheerless  land,  full  of  wandering  shadows,  —  a  place, 
where  there  is  no  sun,  no  clear,  conscious,  joyous  life, 


16     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

where  even  fortunate  love  is  sad,  where  hope  is  unknown 
to  the  heart,  and  there  is  nothing  in  the  distance  but  death, 
and  nothing  after  death.  There  had  been  a  languid  and 
rather  agreeable  sense  of  enjoyment ;  but  it  was  followed 
by  a  chill. 

GALAHAD.     Oh ! 

THE  GANNET.  How  often  have  I  told  you,  Galahad, 
that  you  're  too  easily  taken  off  your  feet !  He  's  very 
clever,  I  admit ;  but  there  's  a  deal  of  trick  in  it,  for  all 
that.  His  revival  of  obsolete  words,  his  imitation  of 
Chaucer  — 

GALAHAD  (impatiently).     Imitation! 

THE  GANNET.  Well,  —  only  half,  and  half  similarity 
of  talent.  But  no  writer  can  naturally  assume  a  manner 
of  speech  which  has  long  fallen  into  disuse,  even  in 
literature  :  so  far  as  he  does  so,  he  is  artificial.  And  this 
artifice  Morris  carries  into  his  pictures  of  sentiment  and 
passion.  You  cease  to  feel  with  and  for  his  characters, 
long  before  he  has  done  with  them. 

GALAHAD.  As  human  beings,  perhaps ;  but  as  con 
ceptions  of  beauty,  they  have  another  existence. 

THE  GANNET.  When  I  want  a  Greek  frieze,  let  me 
have  it  in  marble  !  Yes,  he  's  a  skilful  workman,  and 
a  successful  one,  as  his  popularity  proves.  And  he  's 
lucky  in  producing  his  canned  fruit  after  Swinburne's 
curry  and  .pepper-sauce  :  but  it  is  canned.  I  don't  say 
I  could  equal  him  in  his  own  line,  for  that  requires 
natural  inclination  as  well  as  knack,  yet  I  think  I  could 
give  you  something  exactly  in  his  style,  in  ten  minutes. 

THE  ANCIENT.     Challenge  him,  Galahad! 

THE  GA>JNET.     Get  me  paper  and  pencil!     I  will  at 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     17 

least  try.  Now,  Galahad,  put  up  your  watch ;  I  only 
stipulate  that  you  don't  time  me  too  exactly.  Stay  !  — 
take  another  sheet  and  try  the  same  thing  yourself. 

(They  write ;  meanwhile  the  others  talk.) 
THE  GANNET  (after  twenty  minutes).  I  have  failed  in 
time,  because  I  began  wrong.  I  tried  to  write  a  serious 
passage  in  Morris's  manner,  and  my  own  habit  of  expres 
sion  immediately  came  in  as  a  disturbing  influence.  Then 
I  gave  up  the  plan  of  producing  something  really  earnest 
and  coherent,  —  that  is,  I  kept  in  mind  the  manner, 
alone,  and  let  the  matter  come  of  itself.  Very  little  ef 
fort  was  required,  1  found :  the  lines  arranged  themselves 
easily  enough.  Now,  lend  me  your  ears  :  it  is  a  passage 
from  "  The  Taming  of  Themistocles,"  in  the  ninth  vol 
ume  of  the  "  Earthly  Paradise55 :  (Reads.) 

"  He  must  be  holpen  ;  yet  how  help  shall  I, 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  ancient  misery, 
And  by  the  newer  grief  apparelled  ? 
If  that  I  throw  these  ashes  on  mine  head, 
Do  this  thing  for  thee,  —  while  about  my  way 
A  shadow  gathers,  and  the  piteous  day, 
So  wan  and  bleak  for  very  loneliness, 
Turneth  from  sight  of  such  unruthfiilness  ?  " 
Therewith  he  caught  an  arrow  from  the  sheaf, 
And  brake  the  shaft  in  witlessness  of  grief ; 
But  Chiton's  vest,  such  dismal  fear  she  had, 
Shook  from  the  heart  that  sorely  was  a-drad, 
And  she  began,  withouten  any  pause, 
To  say  :  "  Why  break  the  old  zEtolian  laws, 
Send  this  man  forth,  that  never  harm  hath  done, 
Between  the  risen  and  the  setten  sun  ?  " 

B 


18  DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB. 

And  next,  they  wandered  to  a  steepy  hill, 
Whence  all  the  land  was  lying  gray  and  still, 
And  not  a  living  creature  there  might  be, 
From  the  cold  mountains  to  the  salt,  cold  sea  ; 
Only,  within  a  little  cove,  one  sail 
Shook,  as  it  whimpered  at  the  cruel  gale, 
And  the  mast  moaned  from  chafing  of  the  rope  ; 
So  all  was  pain  :  they  saw  not  any  hope. 

ZOILUS.  But  that  is  no  imitation  !  You  have  copied 
a  passage  out  of —  out  of  —  pshaw  !  I  know  the  poem, 
and  I  remember  the  lines. 

THE  GANNET  (indignantly).  Out  of  Milton,  why  not 
say  ?  --  where  you  '11  be  just  as  likely  to  find  them.  Now, 
let  me  hear  yours,  Galahad ;  you  were  writing. 

GALAHAD  (crushing  the  paper  in  his  hand).  Mine  is 
neither  one  thing  nor  the  other,  —  not  the  author's  po 
etic  dialect  throughout,  nor  hinting  of  his  choice  of  sub 
jects.  I  began  something,  which  was  really  my  own, 
and  then  gradually  ran  into  an  echo.  I  think  you  have 
hit  upon  the  true  method ;  and  we  must  try  again,  since 
we  know  it. 

THE  GANNET.  Why  not  try  others,  —  a  dozen  of 
them  ?  By  Jove,  I  should  like  some  mere  gymnastics, 
after  the  heavy  prose  I  've  been  writing !  And  you,  too, 
Galahad,  and  the  Ancient  (if  his  ponderous  dignity  does  n't 
prevent  it) ;  and  here  's  Zo'ilus,  the  very  fellow  for  such 
a  diversion  !  We  can  come  together,  here,  and  be  a  pri 
vate,  secret  club  of  Parodists,  —  of  Echoes,  —  of  Icono 
clasts,  —  of  — 

THE  ANCIENT.  Of  irreverent  satirists,  I  fear.  That 
would  be  a  new  kind  of  a  Hainbund,  indeed ;  but,  after 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  19 

all.  it  need  not  be  ill-natured.  At  least,  to  insure  your- 
,  selves  against  relapsing  into  mere  burlesque  and  inciden 
tal  depreciation,  —  which  is  a  tempting,  but  nearly  always 
a  fatal  course,  for  young  writers,  —  I  must  be  present. 
My  indiffereutism,  as  you  call  it,  which  sometimes  pro 
vokes  you  when  I  cannot  share  all  your  raptures,  may  do 
good  service  in  keeping  you  from  rushing  into  the  oppo: 
site  extreme.  As  for  taking  part  in  the  work,  I  won't 
promise  to  do  much.  You  know  I  am  a  man  of  uncer 
tain  impulses,  and  can  get  nothing  out  of  myself  by  force 
of  resolution. 

OMNES.  0,  you  must  take  part !  It  will  be  capital 
sport. 

THE  ANCIENT  (deliberately^  beticeen  the  whiff's  of  his 
cigar}.  Eirst  of  all,  let  us  clearly  understand  what  is  to 
be  done.  To  undertake  parodies,  as  the  word  is  gener 
ally  comprehended,  —  that  is,  to  make  a  close  imitation 
of  some  particular  poem,  though  it  should  be  character 
istic  of  the  author,  —  would  be  rather  a  flat  business. 
Even  the  Brothers  Smith  and  Bon  Gaultier,  admirable  as 
they  are,  stuck  too  closely  to  selected  models ;  and  Phebe 
Gary,  who  has  written  the  best  American  parodies,  did 
the  same  thing.  I  think  the  Gaiinet  has  discovered  some 
thing  altogether  more  original  and  satisfactory,  —  a  sim 
ple  echo  of  the  author's  tone  and  manner.  The  choice 
of  a  subject  gives  another  chance  of  fun. 

(He  takes  np  the  G ANNEX'S  imitation  and  looks  over  it.} 

Here  the  dialect  and  movement  and  atmosphere  are 
suggested;  the  exaggeration  is  neither  coarse  nor  ex 
treme,  and  the  comical  effect  seems  to  lie  mainly  in  the 
circumstance  that  it  is  a  wilful  imitation.  If  we  were  to 


20      DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

find  the  passage  in  one  of  Morris's  poems,  we  might  think 
it  carelessly  written,  somewhat  obscure,  but  still  in  the 
same  key  with  what  precedes  and  follows  it.  Possibly, 
nay,  almost  certainly,  it  would  not  amuse  us  at  all ;  but 
just  now  I  noticed  that  even  Galahad  could  not  help 
laughing.  A  diversion  of  this  sort  is  less  a  labor  and 
more  a  higher  and  finer  recreation  of  the  mind,  than  the 
mechanical  setting  of  some  given  poem,  line  by  line,  to  a 
ludicrous  subject,  like  those  endless  and  generally  stupid 
parodies  of  Longfellow's  "Excelsior"  and  Emerson's 
"  Brahma."  For  heaven's  —  no,  Homer's  —  sake,  let  us 
not  fall  into  that  vein ! 

THE  GANNET.    Thou  speakest  well. 

GALAHAD.  But  how  shall  we  select  the  authors  ?  And 
shall  I  be  required  to  make  my  own  demigods  ridiculous  ? 

ZOILUS.  Let  me  .prove  to  you,  by  one  of  your  own 
demigods,  that  nothing  can  be  either  sublime  or  ridicu 
lous.  Poetry  is  the  Brahma  of  literature, — above  all, 
pervading  all,  self-existent,  though  so  few  find  her  (and 
men  of  business  reckon  ill  who  leave  her  out),  and  there 
fore  quite  unmoved  by  anything  we  may  do.  Don't  you 
remember  the  lines  ?  — 

"  Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near, 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same  ; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear, 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame." 

THE  ANCIENT.  You  are  right,  Zo'ilus,  in  spite  of  your 
sarcasm.  Besides,  it  is  an  evidence  of  a  poet's  distinct 
individuality,  when  he  can  be  amusingly  imitated.  We 
can  only  make  those  the  objects  of  our  fun  whose  manner 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     21 

or  dialect  stamps  itself  so  deeply  into  our  minds  that  a 
new  cast  can  be  taken.  We  are  sporting  around  great, 
and  sometimes  little  names,  like  birds  or  cats  or  lizards 
around  the  feet,  and  over  the  shoulders,  and  on  the  heads 
of  statues.  Now,  there  's  an  idea  for  a  poem,  Galahad. 
But,  seriously,  how  would  you  imitate  Pollok's  "  Course 
of  Time,"  or  Young's  "Night  Thoughts,"  or  Blair's 
"  Grave,"  or  any  other  of  those  masses  of  words,  which 
are  too  ponderous  for  poetry  and  too  respectable  for  ab 
surdity  !  Either  extreme  will  do  for  us,  excellence  or  imbe 
cility;  but  it  must  have  a  distinct,  pronounced  character. 

THE  GANNET.  Come,  now !  1 5m  eager  for  another 
trial. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Let  us  each  write  the  names  of  three 
or  four  poets  on  separate  slips  of  paper,  and  throw  them 
into  my  hat ;  then  let  each  draw  out  one  slip  as  his  model 
for  to-night.  Thus  there  will  be  no  clashing  of  tastes  or 
inclinations,  and  our  powers  of  imitation  will  be  more 
fairly  tested. 
(They  write  three  names  apiece,  the  CHORUS  taking  part. 

Then  all  are  thrown  into  the  THE   ANCIENT'S  hat  and 

shaken  up  together?) 

GALAHAD  (drawing).     Robert  Browning. 

THE  GANNET.     So  is  mine. 

ZOILUS.     Edgar  A.  Poe. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Some  of  us  have  written  the  same 
names.  Well,  let  it  be  so  to-night.  If  we  find  the  ex 
periment  diverting,  we  can  easily  avoid  any  such  repeti 
tion  next  time.  Moreover,  Browning  alone  will  challenge 
echoes  from  all  of  us ;  and  I  am  curious  to  see  whether 
the  several  imitations  will  reflect  the  same  characteristics 


22  DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

of  his  style.  It  will,  at  least,  show  whether  the  stamp 
upon  each  mind  has  any  common  likeness  to  the  original. 

THE  GANNET.  A  good  idea !  But  Zo'ilus  is  already 
possessed  by  the  spirit  of  Poe ;  not,  I  hope,  in  the  manner 
of  Dr.  Garth  Wilkinson  of  London,  whose  volume  of 
poems  dictated  by  the  spirits  of  the  dead  authors  is  the 
most  astonishing  collection  I  ever  saw.  He  makes  Poe's 
"wet  locks"  rhyme  to  his  " fetlocks"  !  It  is  even  worse 
than  Harris's  "Epic  of  the  Starry  Heavens,"  dictated  to 
him  in  forty-eight  hours  by  Dante.  By  the  by,  we  have 
a  good  chance  to  test  this  matter  of  possession;  the 
suggestion  nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself  to  my 
fancy.  But  since  I  was  your  pioneer  to-night,  I  '11  even 
rest  until  Zoilus  has  finished ;  then,  let  us  all  start  fairly. 

ZOILUS  (a  few  minutes  later].  If  this  is  at  all  good,  it 
is  not  because  of  labor.  I  had  an  easier  task  than  the 
Gannet.  (Reads) 

THE   PROMISSORY  NOTE. 

In  the  lonesome  latter  years, 

(Fatal  years  !) 

To  the  dropping  of  my  tears 
Danced  the  mad  and  mystic  spheres 
In  a  rounded,  reeling  rune, 

'Neath  the  moon, 
To  the  dripping  and  the  dropping  of  my  tears. 

Ah,  my  soul  is  swathed  in  gloom, 

(Ulalume !) 

In  a  dim  Titanic  tomb, 
For  my  gaunt  and  gloomy  soul 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     23 

Ponders  o'er  the  penal  scroll, 
O'er  the  parchment  (riot  a  rhyme), 
Out  of  place,  —  out  of  time,  — 
I  arn  shredded,  shorn,  unshifty, 

(O,  the  fifty !) 
And  the  days  have  passed,  the  three, 

Over  me  ! 
And  the  debit  and  the  credit  are  as  one  to  him  and  me  ! 

'T  was  the  random  runes  I  wrote 
At  the  bottom  of  the  note, 

(Wrote  and  freely 

Gave  to  Greeley,) 
In  the  middle  of  the  night, 
In  the  mellow,  moonless  night, 
When  the  stars  were  out  of  sight, 
When  my  pulses,  like  a  knell, 

(Israfel !) 

Danced  with  dim  and  dying  fays 
O'er  the  ruins  of  my  days, 
O'er  the  dimeless,  timeless  days, 
When  the  fifty,  drawn  at  thirty, 
Seeming  thrifty,  yet  the  dirty 
Lucre  of  the  market,  was  the  most  that  I  could  raise  ! 

Fiends  controlled  it, 
(Let  him  hold  it !) 

Devils  held  for  me  the  inkstand  and  the  pen  ; 
Now  the  days  of  grace  are  o'er, 

(Ah,  Lenore !) 
I  am  but  as  other  men  : 
What  is  time,  time,  time, 
To  my  rare  and  runic  rhyme, 

TTNIVERS 


24     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

To  my  random,  reeling  rhyme, 
By  the  sands  along  the  shore, 

"Where  the  tempest  whispers, "  Pay  him !  "  and  I  answer,  "Never 
more  !  " 

GALAHAD.  What  do  you  mean  by  the  reference  to 
Greeley  ? 

ZOILUS.  I  thought  everybody  had  heard  that  Greeley 's 
only  autograph  of  Poe  was  a  signature  to  a  promissory 
note  for  fifty  dollars.  He  offers  to  sell  it  for  half  the 
money.  Now,  I  don't  mean  to  be  wicked,  and  to  do 
nothing  with  the  dead  except  bone  'em,  but  when  such  a 
cue  pops  into  one's  mind,  what  is  one  to  do  ? 

TIIE  ANCIENT.  0,  I  think  you  're  still  within  decent 
limits !  There  was  a  congenital  twist  about  poor  Poe. 
We  can't  entirely  condone  his  faults,  yet  we  stretch  our 
charity  so  as  to  cover  as  much  as  possible.  His  poetry 
has  a  hectic  flush,  a  strange,  fascinating,  narcotic  quality, 
which  belongs  to  him  alone.  Baudelaire  and  Swinburne 
after  him  have  been  trying  to  surpass  him  by  increasing 
the  dose  ;  but  his  Muse  is  the  natural  Pythia,  inheriting 
her  convulsions,  while  they  eat  all  sorts  of  insane  roots 
to  produce  theirs. 

GALAHAD  (eagerly).     Did  you  ever  know  him  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  met  him  two  or  three  times,  heard 
him  lecture  once  (his  enunciation  was  exquisite),  and  saw 
him  now  and  then  in  Broadway,  —  enough  to  satisfy  me 
that  there  were  two  men  in  him  :  one,  a  refined  gentle 
man,  an  aspiring  soul,  an  artist  among  those  who  had 
little  sense  of  literary  art ;  the  other  — 

ZOILUS.     Go  on ! 

TIIE  ANCIENT.     "  Built  his  nest  with  the   birds  of 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  25 

Night."    No  more  of  that !     Now  let  us  all  invoke  the 
demigod,  Browning. 

GALAHAD.     It  will  be  a  task. 

ZOILUS.  I  don't  think  so ;  it 's  even  simpler  than 
what  we  Jve  done.  Why,  Browning's  manner  is  as  dis 
tinctly  his  own  as  Carlyle's,  and  sometimes  as  wilfnlly 
artificial.  In  fact,  he  is  so  peculiarly  himself  that  no 
younger  poet  has  dared  to  imitate  his  fashion  of  speech, 
although  many  a  one  tries  to  follow  him  in  the  choice  and 
treatment  of  subjects.  Browning  is  the  most  dramatic 
of  poets  since  Shakespeare  ;  don't  you  think  so,  Ancient  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  In  manner  and  language,  perhaps. 
I  should  prefer  to  call  him  a  psychologist.  His  subtile 
studies  of  all  varieties  of  character  are  wonderful,  if  you 
look  at  the  substance  only ;  but  every  one  of  them,  from 
first  to  last,  speaks  with  the  voice  of  Browning.  Take 
"The  King  and  the  Book,"  for  instance,  —  and  I  con 
sider  it  one  of  the  most  original  and  excellent  poems  in 
the  English  language,  —  and  in  each  of  the  twelve  divis 
ions  you  will  find  exactly  the  same  interruptions,  paren 
theses,  ellipses,  the  same  coinage  of  illustration  and  play 
of  recondite  hints  under  what  is  expressed.  I  should 
guess  that  he  writes  very  rapidly,  and  concerns  himself 
little  with  any  objective  theories  of  art.  You  ought  to 
copy  his  manner  easily  enough. 

ZOILUS.  I  can.  I  have  caught  the  idea  already.  (He 
takes  a  pencil  and  writes  rapidly.  GALAHAD  and  the 
GANNET  also  begin  to  write,  but  slowly) 

THE  CHORUS  (to  THE  ANCIENT).  Why  don't  you 
begin  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.     I  was  deliberating ;  what  a  range  of 
2 


26  DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

forms  there  is  !  He  is  as  inexhaustible  as  Raphael,  and 
he  always  expresses  the  same  sense  of  satisfaction  in  his 
work.  Well,  anything  will  do  for  a  subject.  (Writes.) 

ZOILTJS  (after  a  few  minutes}.  Hearken  !  I  must  read 
at  once,  or  I  shall  go  on  writing  forever ;  it  bewilders 
me.  (Reads.) 

"Who  wills,  may  hear  Sordello's  story  told 

By  Robert  Browning  :  warm  ?   (you  ask)  or  cold  ? 

But  just  so  much  as  seemeth  to  enhance  — 

The  start  being  granted,  onward  goes  the  dance 

To  its  own  music  —  the  poem's  inward  sense  ; 

So,  by  its  verity  ....  nay,  no  pretence 

Avails  your  self-created  bards,  and  thus 

By  just  the  chance  of  half  a  hair  to  us, 

If  understood  ....  but  what  the  odds  to  you, 

Who,  with  no  obligations  to  pursue 

Scant  tracks  of  thought,  if  such,  indeed,  there  be 

In  this  one  poem,  —  stay,  my  friend,  and  see 

Whether  you  note  that  creamy  tint  of  flesh, 

Softer  than  bivalve  pink,  impearled  and  fresh, 

Just  where  the  small  o'  the  back  goes  curving  down 

To  orbic  muscles  ....  ha  !  that  sidelong  frown 

Pursing  the  eye,  and  folded,  deeply  cleft 

I'  the  nostril's  edge,  as  though  contempt  were  left 

Just  o'er  the  line  that  bounds  indifference 

But  here 's  the  test  of  any  closer  sense 

(You  follow  me  ?)  such  as  I  started  with  ; 

And  there  be  minds  that  seek  the  very  pith, 

Crowd  close,  bore  deep,  push  far,  and  reach  the  light 

Through  league-long  tunnels  — 

GALAHAD  (interrupting).  But  that  is  Sordello  you're 
reading ! 


DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB.  27 

ZOILUS.  Yes,  mine.  I  am  one  of  the  few  who  have 
bored  their  way  through  that  amazing  work.  Browning's 
"  Sordello  "  (if  you  ever  read  it,  you  will  remember) 
begins  with  something  about  "  Pentapolin  o'  the  Naked 
Arm."  It  is  not  any  particular  passage,  but  the  manner 
of  the  whole  poem  which  I  've  tried  to  reproduce  ;  a  little 
exaggerated,  to  be  sure,  but  not  much.  Now,  I  call  this 
perplexity,  not  profundity.  Was  n't  it  the  Swedish  poet, 
Tegner,  who  said,  "  The  obscurely  uttered  is  the  ob 
scurely  thought "  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Yes  ;  and  it  is  true  in  regard  to  poetry, 
however  the  case  may  be  with  metaphysics.  But  we  have 
a  right  to  be  vexed  with  Browning,  when,  in  the  dedica 
tory  letter  to  the  new  edition  of  "  Sordello/5  he  says  that 
he  had  taken  pains  to  make  the  work  something  "  which 
the  many  might,  instead  of  what  the  few  must,  like,"  but, 
after  all,  did  not  choose  to  publish  the  revised  copy. 
There  is  a  touch  of  arrogance  in  this  expression  which  I 
should  rather  not  have  encountered.  The  "  must "  which 
he  flings  at  the  few  is  far  more  offensive  than  utter  indif 
ference  to  all  readers  would  have  been ;  and  not  even 
those  few  can  make  us  accept  "  Sordello."  However, 
multum  creavit  is  as  good  a  plea  as  multum  dilexit. 
Browning  has  a  -royal  brain,  and  we  owe  him  too  much 
to  bear  malice  against  him.  Only,  we  must  not  encour 
age  our  masters  in  absolute  rule,  or  they  will  become 
tyrants. 

ZOILUS.     I  don't  acknowledge  any  masters  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  We  all  know  that.  Now,  Galahad, 
what  have  you  done  ? 

GALAHAD  (reads)  :  — 


28  DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

BY  THE  SEA. 

(Mutatis  mutandis.) 


Is  it  life  or  is  it  death  ? 

A  whiff  of  the  cool  salt  scum, 
As  the  whole  sea  puffed  its  breath 

Against  you,  —  blind  and  dumb, 
This  way  it  answereth. 


Nearer  the  sands  it  shows 
Spotted  and  leprous  tints  : 

But  stay  !  yon  fisher  knows 
Rock-tokens,  which  evince 

How  high  the  tide  arose. 


How  high  ?     In  you  and  me 
'T  was  falling  then,  I  think  ; 

Open  your  heart's  eyes,  see 
From  just  so  slight  a  chink 

The  chasm  that  now  must  be. 


You  sighed  and  shivered  then, 

Blue  ecstasies  of  June 
Around  you,  shouts  of  fishermen, 

Sharp  wings  of  sea-gulls,  soon 
To  dip  —  the  clock  struck  ten ! 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     29 

v. 

Was  it  the  cup  too  full, 

To  carry  it  you  grew 
Too  faint,  the  wine's  hue  dull, 

(Dulness,  misjudged  untrue !) 
Love's  flower  unfit  to  cull  ? 

VI. 

You  should  have  held  me  fast 

One  moment,  stopped  my  pace, 
Crushed  down  the  feeble,  vast 

Suggestions  of  embrace, 
And  so  be  crowned  at  last. 


But  now !  .  .  .  .  Bare-legged  and  hrown 

Bait-diggers  delve  the  sand, 
Tramp  i'  the  sunshine  down 

B unit-ochre  vestured  land, 
And  yonder  stares  the  town. 

VIII. 

A  heron  screams  !     I  shut 

This  book  of  scurf  and  scum, 
Its  final  page  uncut ; 

The  sea-beast,  blind  and  dumb, 
Done  with  his  bellowing  ?     All  but ! 

THE  GANNET.  It  seems  we  have  all  hit  upon  the  ob 
vious  characteristics,  especially  those  which  are  most 
confusing.  There  is  something  very  like  that  in  the 
"Dramatis  Persona"  or  there  seems  to  be.  Now,  I 
wonder  how  my  attempt  will  strike  you?  (Reads.} 


30  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 


ANGELO   ORDERS   HIS   DINNER. 

I,  Angelo,  obese-,  black-garmented, 

Respectable,  much  in  demand,  well  fed 

With  mine  own  larder's  dainties,  —  where,  indeed, 

Such  cakes  of  myrrh  or  fine  alyssum  seed, 

Thin  as  a  mallow-leaf,  embrowned  o'  the  top, 

"Which,  cracking,  lets  the  ropy,  trickling  drop 

Of  sweetness  touch  your  tongue,  or  potted  nests 

Which  my  recondite  recipe  invests 

With  cold  conglomerate  tidbits  —  ah,  the  bill ! 

(You  say,)  but  given  it  were  mine  to  fill 

My  chests,  the  case  so  put  were  yours,  we  '11  say, 

(This  counter,  here,  your  post,  as  mine  to-day,) 

And  you  've  an  eye  to  luxuries,  what  harm 

In  smoothing  down  your  palate  with  the  charm 

Yourself  concocted?     There  we  issue  take; 

And  see !  as  thus  across  the  rim  I  break 

This  puffy  paunch  of  glazed  embroidered  cake, 

So  breaks,  through  use,  the  lust  of  watering  chaps 

And  craveth  plainness  :  do  I  so  ?     Perhaps  ; 

But  that 's  my  secret.     Find  me  such  a  man 

As  Lippo  yonder,  built  upon  the  plan 

Of  heavy  storage,  double-navelled,  fat 

From  his  own  giblets'  oils,  an  Ararat 

Uplift  o'er  water,  sucking  rosy  draughts 

From  Noah's  vineyard,  —  ...  crisp,  enticing  wafts 

Yon  kitchen  now  emits,  which  to  your  sense 

Somewhat  abate  the  fear  of  old  events, 

Qualms  to  the  stomach,  —  I,  you  see,  am  slow 

Unnecessary  duties  to  forego,  — 

You  understand  ?     A  venison  haunch,  haut  gout, 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     31 

Bucks  that  in  Cimbrian  olives  mildly  stew, 
And  sprigs  of  anise,  might  one's  teeth  provoke 
To  taste,  and  so  we  wear  the  complex  yoke 
Just  as  it  suits,  —  my  liking,  I  confess, 
More  to  receive,  and  to  partake  no  less, 
Still  more  obese,  while  through  thick  adipose 
Sensation  shoots,  from  testing  tongue  to  toes 
Far  off,  dim-conscious,  at  the  body's  verge, 
Where  the  froth-whispers  of  its  waves  emerge 
On  the  untasting  sand.     Stay,  now  !  a  seat 
Is  bare  :   I,  Angelo,  will  sit  and  eat. 

THE  CHORUS.     There  Js  no  mistaking  any  of  them  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  And  yet  what  a  wealth  of  forms  and 
moods  there  is  left !  You  have  only  touched  the  poet 
on  two  or  three  of  his  shifting  sides.  Whoever  should 
hear  these  imitations  first,  and  then  take  up  the  original 
works,  would  recognize  certain  fashions  here  and  there, 
but  he  would  be  wholly  unprepared  for  the  special  best 
qualities  of  Browning. 

THE  CHOJIUS.     How,  then,  have  you  fared  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  'm  afraid  I  Jve  violated  the  very 
law  I  laid  down  at  the  beginning.  But  I  took  the  first 
notion  that  came  into  my  head,  and  I  could  not  possibly 
make  it  either  all  imitation  or  all  burlesque.  However, 
hear,  and  then  punish  me  as  you  like !  (Reads.) 

ON   THE   TRACK. 

Where  the  crags  are  close,  and  the  railway-curve 

Begins  to  swerve 
From  its  straight-shot  course  i'  the  level  plain 

To  the  hills  again, 


32  DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB. 

At  the  end  of  the  twilight,  when  you  mark 
The  denser  dark 

Blown  by  the  wind  from  the  heights,  that  make 

A  cold,  coiled  snake 
Round  the  shuddering  world,  as  a  Midgards-orm- 

like,  sinuous  form,  — 
"With  scant-cut  hosen,  jacket  in  hands, 

The  small  boy  stands. 

Clipt  by  the  iron  ways,  shiny  and  straight, 

You  see  him  wait, 
'Twixt  the  coming  thunder  and  the  rock, 

To  fend  the  shock, 
As  a  mite  should  stay,  with  its  wriggling  force, 

A  planet's  course. 

Even  as  he  dances,  leaps,  and  stoops, 

The  black  train  swoops 
Up  from  the  level :  wave  jacket,  cry  ! 

Must  all  then  die  ? 
Sweating,  the  small  boy  smiles  again  ; 

He  has  stopped  the  train  ! 

GALAHAD.  Well,  that  somehow  suggests  to  me  two 
poems:  his  "  Love  among  the  Ruins,"  and  the  "  Incident 
of  the  French  Camp/'  yet  it  is  not  an  imitation  of  either. 
I  should  only  apply  to  it  the  same  criticism  as  to  my 
own,  —  that  it  gives  no  hint  of  Browning's  subtile  and 
ingenious  way  of  dealing  with  the  simplest  subjects.  He 
seems  always  to  seek  some  other  than  the  ordinary  and 
natural  point  of  view.  I  believe  he  could  change 
"  Mother  Hubbard J}  and  "  Kits,  cats,  sacks,  and  wives  " 
into  profound  psychological  poems. 


DIVERSIONS    OP   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 


33 


THE  ANCIENT.  Now,  why  did  n't  you  say  that  before 
we  began  ?  I  might  have  made,  at  least,  a  more  gro 
tesque  failure.  But,  0  Gambriims!  our  glasses  have 
been  empty  this  hour.  Ring  for  the  waiter,  Galahad ;  let 
us  refresh  our  wearied  virtue,  and  depart ! 

OMNES  (touching  glasses).    To  be  continued  ! 

[Exeunt. 


2* 


OF  THB 


NIGHT   THE    SECOND. 


JHE  friends  came  together  again  in  the  Lions' 
Den,  a  little  earlier  than  their  wont ;  but  they 
did  not  immediately  take  up  the  chief  diversion 
of  the  evening.  In  intellectual,  as  in  physical 
acrobatics,  the  joints  must  be  gradually  made  flexible, 
and  the  muscles  warm  and  elastic,  by  lighter  feats ;  so 
the  conversation  began  as  mere  skylarking  and  mutual 
chaffing,  as  empty  and  evanescent,  when  you  attempt  to 
catch  it,  as  the  foam-ripples  on  a  swift  stream.  But 
Galahad  had  something  on  his  mind  ;  he  had  again  read 
portions  of  the  "Earthly  Paradise,"  and  insisted  that  the 
atmosphere  of  the  poems  was  not  gray  and  overcast,  but 
charged  with  a  golden,  luminous  mist,  like  that  of  the 
Indian  summer.  Finally,  he  asked  the  Ancient,  — 

"  Granting  the  force  of  your  impression,  might  not 
much  of  it  come  from  some  want  of  harmony  between 
your  mood  or  temper  of  mind  and  the  author's  ?  In  that 
case,  it  would  not  be  abstractly  just." 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  don't  think  that  we  often  can  be 
"abstractly  just"  towards  contemporary  poets;  we 
either  exalt  or  abase  them  too  much.  For  we  and  they 
breathe  either  the  same  or  opposite  currents  in  the  intel- 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     35 

lectual  atmosphere  of  the  time,  and  there  can  be  no  im 
partial  estimate  until  those  winds  have  blown  over.  This 
is  precisely  the  reason  why  you  sometimes  think  me  in 
different,  when  I  am  only  trying  to  shove  myself  as  far  off 
as  the  next  generation ;  at  least,  to  get  a  little  outside 
of  the  fashions  and  whims  and  prejudices  of  this  day. 
American  authors,  and  also  their  publishers,  are  often 
charged  with  an  over-concern  for  the  opinion  of  the  Eng 
lish  literary  journals.  I  think  their  interest  quite  nat 
ural  — 

ZOILUS  (with  energy).  Now,  you  surely  are  not  going 
to  justify  that  sycophantic  respect  for  the  judgment  of 
men  who  know  so  much  less  than  we  do  of  our  own  lit 
erature  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  condemn  all  sycophancy,  even  to 
the  great,  triumphant,  overwhelming  American  spirit ! 
But,  until  we  have  literary  criticism  of  a  more  purely  ob 
jective  character  in  this  country,  —  until  our  critics  learn 
to  separate  their  personal  tastes  and  theories  from  their 
estimate  of  the  executive  and  artistic  quality  of  the  au 
thor  ;  or,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  to  set  this 
quality,  this  creative  principle,  higher  than  the  range  of 
themes  and  opinions,  —  the  author  will  look  to  the  judg 
ment  of  critics,  whose  distance  and  whose  very  want  of 
acquaintance  with  our  prejudices  and  passions  assure  him 
of  a  certain  amount  of  impartiality.  The  feeling  is  recip 
rocal  ;  I  venture  to  say  that  an  intelligent  American  criti 
cism  has  more  weight  with  an  English  author  than  that 
of  one  of  his  own  Reviews. 

ZOILUS.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we  have  no  genuine 
criticism? 


36      DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

THE  ANCIENT.  By  no  means  ;  we  have  some  that  is 
admirable.  But  it  is  only  recognized  at  its  true  value  by 
a  very  small  class ;  the  great  reading  public  is  blissfully 
ignorant  of  its  existence.  It  adds  to  the  confusion,  that 
many  of  our  writers  have  no  definite  ideas  of  literary  ex 
cellence  apart  from  the  effect  which  immediately  follows 
their  work  ;  and  readers  are  thus  actually  misled  by  those 
who  should  guide  them.  Why,  a  year  ago,  the  most 
popular  book  in  the  whole  country  was  one  which  docs 
not  even  belong  to  literature;  and  the  most  popular 
poem  of  late  years  was  written,  not  from  a  poetic,  but 
from  a  high  moral,  inspiration  !  Somebody  must  set  up 
a  true  aesthetic  standard  ;  it  is  high  time  this  were  done, 
and  a  better  criticism  must  be  the  first  step. 

THE  GANNET.     Why  don't  you  undertake  it  yourself? 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  'm  too  fond  of  comfort.  Think 
what  a  hornet's-nest  I  should  thrust  my  hand  into  ? 
Moreover,  I  doubt  whether  one  could  force  such  interests 
beyond  their  natural  growth  ;  we  are  still  suffering  from 
the  intellectual  demoralization  which  the  war  left  behind 
it.  But,  where  's  the  hat  ?  We  are  spoiling  ourselves 
by  all  this  serious  prose.  Let  us  throw  in  a  few  more 
names,  and  try  our  luck  again. 

(They  draw  the  lots  as  before?) 

THE  GANNET.  John  Keats  !  How  shall  I  wear  his 
mantle  ? 

ZOILUS.  I  Jm  crushed,  buried  under  an  avalanche  of, 
—  well,  not  much,  after  all.  Don't  ask  me  who  it  is, 
until  I  try  my  hand.  You  would  confuse  me  with  your 
laughter. 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB.  37 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  shall  keep  mine  specially  for  you, 
Zoi'lus. 

GALAHAD.  I  have  drawn  one  of  the  names  I  wrote 
myself ;  but  you  have  already  so  demoralized  me,  that  I 
will  try  to  parody  him  as  heartily  as  if  I  did  n't  like  his 
poetry. 

THE  ANCIENT.  You  are  getting  on.  But  I  think  the 
Gannet  ought  to  draw  another  name  ;  it  is  best  not  to  go 
back  of  our  own  day  and  generation.  I  propose  that  we 
limit  ourselves  to  the  poets  who  stand  nearer  to  our  own 
minds,  under  whom,  or  beside  whom,  or  above  whom  (as 
each  chooses  to  estimate  himself),  we  have  grown  and  are 
now  growing.  The  further  we  withdraw  from  this  at 
mosphere,  the  more  artificial  must  our  imitations  be. 

THE  GANNET.  Let  it  pass  this  once,  I  pray  thee,  for 
I  have  caught  my  idea  !  But,  even  taking  your  limita 
tion,  who  is  nearer  us  than  Keats  ?  Not  alone  in  his 
own  person,  though  there  he  stands  among  us ;  he  is  in 
Tennyson,  in  Morris,  in  Swinburne,  and,  more  remotely, 
in  the  earlier  poems  of  Browning  and  Lowell,  besides  a 
host  of  small  rhymers.  He  still  approaches  us,  while 
Shelley  and  Byron  withdraw.  I  think  it 's  a  fair  excep 
tion  ;  and  if  you  won't  admit  it,  I  '11  take  the  sense  of 
the  company. 

OMNES.    Go  on ! 

(All  write  busily  for  ffteen  minutes,  except  THE  ANCIENT 
who  talks  in  a  lower  tone  to  THE  CHORUS.) 

THE  GANNET  (looking  up).  Zoi'lus,  you  were  ready 
first. 

ZOILUS.     Could  you  guess  whom  I  represent  ? 
THE  GANNET.    Tupper? 


38     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

ZOILUS.  He  ?  he  is  his  own  best  parody.  No  ;  it  is 
a  lyrical  inanity,  which  once  was  tolerably  famous.  The 
Ancient's  rule  as  to  what  is  properly  parodiable  does  n't 
apply  here ;  for  it  is  neither  excellent  nor  imbecile.  I 
think  I  had  the  right  to  reject  the  name,  but  I  have  tried 
to  see  whether  a  respectable  jingle  of  words,  expressing 
ordinary  and  highly  proper  feelings,  can  be  so  imitated  as 
to  be  recognized.  Here  it  is.  (Reads.) 

OBITUARY. 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  ELIJAH  W.  BATEY. 

Ay,  bear  him  to  his  sainted  rest, 

Ye  mourners,  but  be  calm  ! 
Instead  of  dirge  and  sable  crest, 

Raise  ye  thanksgiving  psalm  ! 
For  he  was  old  and  full  of  years, 

The  grandsire  of  your  souls  : 
Then  check  ye  now  your  heaving  tears, 

And  quench  the  sigh  that  rolls  ! 

Ye  heard  him  from  yon  pulpit  preach, 

For  sixty  years  and  more, 
Still  battering  with  unwearied  speech 

The  ceiling,  pews,  and  floor ; 
As,  hour  by  hour,  his  periods  fell, 

Your  pious  hopes  arose, 
And  each  one  murmured,  "  All  is  well," 

Long  ere  the  sermon's  close. 

Think  ye  the  voice  that  spake  so  long 
Can  any  where  be  dumb  ? 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB.  39 

Before  him  went  a  goodly  throng, 

And  wait  for  him  to  come. 
He  preaches  still,  in  other  spheres, 

To  saved  and  patient  souls  ; 
Then,  mourners,  check  your  heaving  tears, 

And  quench  the  sigh  that  rolls  ! 

OMNES  (shouting).    Mrs.  Sigourney  ! 

ZOILUS.  I  have  succeeded,  then  !  But,  0  my  friends, 
is  the  success  a  thing  over  which  I  should  rejoice  ?  Do 
not,  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  congratulate  me  ! 

GALAHAD.  Come,  now,  don't  abuse  good  old  Mother 
Sigourney!  For  a  long  time  she  was  almost  our  only 
woman-poet ;  and  I  insist  that  she  was  not  a  mere  echo 
of  Felicia  Remans. 

ZOILUS  (ironically).  Of  course  not!  None  but  her 
self  could  ever  have  written  that  exquisite  original  poem, 
"  On  Finding  a  Shred  of  Linen."  One  passage  I  can 
never  forget :  — 

"  Methinks  I  scan 

Some  idiosyncrasy,  which  marks  thee  out 
A  defunct  pillow-case." 

GALAHAD.  You  are  incorrigible ;  but  we  wait  for  the 
Gaunet  and  the  idea  he  has  caught. 

THE  GANNET.  It  was  better  in  anticipation  than  it 
seems  after  execution.  However,  Keats  is  too  dainty  a 
spirit  to  be  possessed  in  a  few  minutes.  (Reads) 


40  DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO    CLUB. 

ODE   ON   A  JAR   OF  PICKLES. 

i. 

A  sweet,  acidulous,  down-reaching  thrill 

Pervades  my  sense :  I  seem  to  see  or  hear 
The  lushy  garden-grounds  of  Greenwich  Hill 

In  autumn,  when  the  crispy  leaves  are  sere : 
Arid  odors  haunt  me  of  remotest  spice 

From  the  Levant  or  musky -aired  Cathay, 
Or  from  the  saffron -fields  of  Jericho, 
Where  everything  is  nice :     . 

The  more  I  sniff,  the  more  I  swoon  away, 
And  what  else  mortal  palate  craves,  forego. 

II. 

Odors  unsmelled  are  keen,  but  those  I  smell 
Are  keener  ;  wherefore  let  me  sniff  again  ! 

Enticing  walnuts,  I  have  known  ye  well 

In  youth,  when  pickles  were  a  passing  pain ; 

Unwitting  youth,  that  craves  the  candy  stem, 
And  sugar-plums  to  olives  doth  prefer, 

And  even  licks  the  pots  of  marmalade 

When  sweetness  clings  to  them : 
But  now  I  dream  of  ambergris  and  myrrh, 

Tasting  these  walnuts  in  the  poplar  shade. 

in. 
Lo  !  hoarded  coolness  in  the  heart  of  noon, 

Plucked  with  its  dew,  the  cucumber  is  here, 
As  to  the  Dryad's  parching  lips  a  boon, 

And  crescent  bean-pods,  unto  Bacchus  dear ; 
And,  last  of  all,  the  pepper's  pungent  globe, 

The  scarlet  dwelling  of  the  sylph  of  fire, 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB.  41 

Provoking  purple  draughts  ;  and,  surfeited, 

I  cast  my  trailing  robe 
O'er  my  pale  feet,  toucli  up  my  tuneless  lyre, 
And  twist  the  Delphic  wreath  to  suit  my  head. 

IV. 

Here  shall  my  tongue  in  other  wise  he  soured 

Than  fretful  men's  in  parched  and  palsied  days ; 
And,  hy  the  mid-May's  dusky  leaves  embowered 

Forget  the  fruitful  blame,  the  scanty  praise. 
No  sweets  to  them  who  sweet  themselves  were  born, 

Whose  natures  ooze  with  lucent  saccharine ; 
Who,  with  sad  repetition  soothly  cloyed, 
The  lemon -tinted  morn 

Enjoy,  and  for  acetic  darkness  pine  : 
Wake  I,  or  sleep  ?     The  pickle-jar  is  void. 

ZOILTJS.  Not  to  be  mistaken;  but  you  have  almost 
stepped  over  the  bounds  of  our  plan.  Those  two  odes 
of  Keats  are  too  immediately  suggested,  though  I  find 
that  only  two  lines  are  actually  parodied.  I  agree  with 
the  Ancient ;  let  us  stick  to  the  authors  of  our  own  day  ! 
Galahad,  you  look  mysterious;  are  we  to  guess  your 
singer  from  the  echo? 

GALAHAD.  Are  you  all  ready  to  hear  me  chant,  in 
rare  and  rhythmic  redundancy,  the  viciousness  of  virtue  ? 

THE  CHORUS.     0,  Swinburne  !  chant  away  ! 

GALAHAD  (reads)  :  — 

THE   LAY   OF  MACARONI. 

As  a  wave  that  steals  when  the  winds  are  stormy 
From  creek  to  cove  of  the  curving  shore, 


42      DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

Buffeted,  blown,  and  broken  before  me, 

Scattered  and  spread  to  its  sunlit  core  ; 
As  a  dove  that  dips  in  the  dark  of  maples 

To  sip  the  sweetness  of  shelter  and  shade, 
I  kneel  in  thy  nimbus,  0  noon  of  Naples, 

I  bathe  in  thine  beauty,  by  thee  embayed ! 

"What  is  it  ails  me  that  I  should  sing  of  her  ? 

The  queen  of  the  flashes  and  flames  that  were  ! 
Yea,  I  have  felt  the  shuddering  sting  of  her, 

The  flower-sweet  throat  and  the  hands  of  her  ! 
I  have  swayed  and  sung  to  the  sound  of  her  psalters, 

I  have  danced  her  dances  of  dizzy  delight, 
I  have  hallowed  mine  hair  to  the  horns  of  her  altars, 

Between  the  nightingale's  song  and  the  night ! 

What  is  it,  Queen,  that  now  I  should  do  for  thee  ? 

What  is  it  now  I  should  ask  at  thine  hands  ? 
Blow  of  the  trumpets  thine  children  once  blew  for  thee  ? 

Break  from  thine  feet  and  thine  bosom  the  bands  ? 
Nay,  as  sweet  as  the  songs  of  Leone  Leoni, 

And  gay  as  her  garments  of  gem-sprinkled  gold, 
She  gives  me  mellifluous,  mild  macaroni, 

The  choice  of  her  children  when  cheeses  are  old ! 

And  over  me  hover,  as  if  by  the  wings  of  it, 

Frayed  in  the  furnace  by  flame  that  is  fleet, 
The  curious  coils  and  the  strenuous  strings  of  it, 

Dropping,  diminishing  down,  as  I  eat : 
Lo  !  and  the  beautiful  Queen,  as  she  brings  of  it, 

Lifts  me  the  links  of  the  limitless  chain, 
Bidding  mine  mouth  chant  the  splendidest  things  of  it, 

Out  of  the  wealth  of  my  wonderful  brain  ! 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     43 

Behold  !  I  have  done  it :  my  stomach  is  smitten 

With  sweets  of  the  surfeit  her  hands  have  unrolled. 
Italia,  mine  cheeks  with  thine  kisses  are  bitten : 

I  am  broken  with  beauty,  stabbed,  slaughtered,  and  sold ! 
No  man  of  thine  millions  is  more  macaronied, 

Save  mighty  Mazzini,  than  musical  Me  : 
The  souls  of  the  Ages  shall  stand  as  astonied, 

And  faint  in  the  flame  I  am  fanning  for  thee ! 

THE  ANCIENT  (laughing).  0  Galahad,  I  can  fancy 
your  later  remorse.  It  is  not  a  year  since  you  were  ab 
solutely  Swinburne-mad,  and  I  hardly  dared,  in  your 
presence,  to  object  even  to  "  Anactoria  "  and  "  Dolores." 
I  would  not  encourage  you,  then,  for  I  saw  you  were 
carried  away  by  the  wild  rush  of  the  rhythm,  and  the 
sparkle  of  epithets  which  were  partly  new  and  seemed 
wholly  splendid ;  but  now  I  will  confess  to  you  that  as  a 
purely  rhythmical  genius  I  look  on  Swinburne  as  a  phe 
nomenon  in  literature. 

GALAHAD  (eagerly).     Then  you  admit  that  he  is  great  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Not  as  you  mean.  I  have  been  wait 
ing  for  his  ferment  to  settle,  as  in  the  case  of  Keats  and 
Shelley ;  but  there  are  no  signs  of  it  in  his  last  volume^ 
How  splendidly  the  mind  of  Keats  precipitated  its  crudity 
and  redundancy,  and  clarified  into  the  pure  wine  of  "  Hy 
perion  "  !  In  Shelley's  case  the  process  was  slower,  but 
it  was  steadily  going  on ;  you  will  find  the  same  thing 
in  Schiller,  in  Dryden,  and  many  other  poets,  therefore  I 
mean  to  reserve  my  judgment  in  Swinburne's  case,  and 
wait,  at  least  until  his  next  work  is  published.  Mean 
while,  I  grant  that  he  has  enriched  our  English  lyric 
poetry  with  some  new  and  admirable  forms. 


44        '     DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB. 

THE  GANNET.  He  has  certainly  made  a  ' '  sensation  " 
in  the  literary  world  ;  does  that  indicate  nothing  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  That  depends.  I  declare  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  the  general  taste  were  not  quite  healthy.  To  a 
very  large  class  reading  has  become  a  form  of  lazy  luxury, 
and  such  readers  are  not  satisfied  without  a  new  great 
poet,  every  four  or  five  years.  Then,  too,  there  has  been 
an  amazing  deal  of  trash  written  about  the  coming  authors, 
—  what  they  should  be,  how  they  must  write,  and  the  like ; 
and  so  those  luxurious  readers  are  all  the  time  believing 
they  have  discovered  one  of  the  tribe.  Why,  let  a  man 
take  a  thought  as  old  as  Confucius,  and  put  it  into  some 
strange,  jerky,  convulsed  form,  and  you  will  immediately 
hear  the  cry,  "  How  wonderful !  how  original !  "  You 
all  remember  the  case  of  Alexander  Smith ;  it  seems  in 
credible,  now,  that  the  simulated  passion  and  forced  sen 
timent  of  his  "  Life-Drama  "  should  have  been  accepted 
as  real,  yet,  because  of  this  book,  he  was  hailed  as  a  second 
Shakespeare.  This  hunger  of  the  luxurious  reader  for 
new  flavors  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  young  poets. 

ZOILUS.  I  almost  think  I  hear  my  own  voice.  We 
don't  often  agree  so  thoroughly. 

THE  ANCIENT.  So  much  the  better.  I  wonder  if 
you  '11  be  as  well  satisfied  with  the  task  I  have  in  store  for 
you  ;  here  is  the  name.  (Giving  him  the  slip  of  paper.) 

ZOILUS.     Emerson  !     I  think  I  can  guess  why. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Yes,  I  remember  what  you  wrote  when 
"  Brahma "  was  first  published,  and  what  you  said  to 
Galahad  the  other  evening.  I  confess  I  was  amazed,  at 
the  time,  that  the  newspapers  should  so  innocently  betray 
their  ignorance.  There  was  a  universal  cry  of  "  incom- 


DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB.  45 

prehensible ! "  when  the  meaning  of  the  poem  was  per 
fectly  plain.  In  fact,  there  are  few  authors  so  transpar 
ently  clear,  barring  a  few  idiosyncrasies  of  expression, 
which  one  soon  learns,  as  just  Emerson. 

ZOILUS.  Then  explain  to  me  those  lines  from  "Al- 
pliouso  of  Castile  "  :  — 

"  Hear  you  then,  celestial  fellows  ! 
Fits  not  to  be  over-zealous  ; 
Steads  not  to  work  on  the  clean  jump, 
And  wine  and  brains  perpetual  pump  !  " 

THE  ANCIENT.  That  is  simply  baldness  of  language 
(which  Emerson  sometimes  mistakes  for  humor),  not  ob 
scurity.  I  will  not  explain  it !  Head  the  whole  poem 
over  again,  and  I  Jm  sure  you  will  not  need  to  ask  me. 
But  now,  to  your  work !  Who  will  draw  again  ? 

THE  GANNET  (drawing].  Ha!  A  friend,  this  time; 
and  I  wish  he  were  here  with  us.  Nobody  would  take 
more  kindly  to  our  fun  than  he. 

GALAHAD.  I  shall  try  no  more,  to-night.  My  imita 
tion  of  Swinburne  has  exhausted  me.  I  felt,  while  writ 
ing,  as  Zoilus  did  when  he  was  imitating  Browning,  • — 
as  if  I  could  have  gone  on  and  on  forever  !  Really  there 
is  some  sort  of  possession  or  demoniac  influence  in  these 
experiments.  They  fascinate  me,  and  yet  I  feel  as  if  a 
spirit  foreign  to  my  own  had  seized  me. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Take  another  cigar  !  I  wish  we  had 
the  Meleager,  or  the  Farnese  torso,  here  ;  five  minutes  of 
either  would  surround  you  with  a  different  atmosphere. 
I  know  precisely  how  it  affects  you.  Thirty  years  ago, 
O  Tempus  Edax,  must  I  say  thirty  ?  when  I  dreamed  hot 


46  DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO    CLUB. 

dreams  of  fame,  and  walked  the  streets  in  a  mild  delirium, 
pondering  over  the  great  and  godlike  powers  pent  within 
me,  I  had  the  same  chills  and  fevers.  I  'm  not  laugh 
ing  at  you,  my  dear  Galahad  ;  God  forbid  !  I  only  pray 
that  there  may  be  more  vitality  in  the  seeds  which  your 
dreams  cover,  than  in  mine.  Waiter !  Our  glasses  are 
empty. 

(Zoi'LUS  and  the  GANNET  continue  to  write:  meantime,  fresh 
glasses  of  beer  are  brought ,  and  there  is  a  brief  silence?) 

ZOILTJS.     I  suspect  the  Ancient  will  want  to  knock  me 
on  the  head  for  this.     (Reads.) 


ALL   OR  NOTHING. 

"Whoso  answers  my  questions 

Knoweth  more  than  me  ; 
Hunger  is  but  knowledge 

In  a  less  degree  : 
Prophet,  priest,  and  poet 

Oft  prevaricate, 
And  the  surest  sentence 

Hath  the  greatest  weight. 

"When  upon  my  gaiters 

Drops  the  morning  dew, 
Somewhat  of  Life's  riddle 

Soaks  my  spirit  through. 
I  am  buskined  by  the  goddess 

Of  Monadnock's  crest, 
And  my  wings  extended 

Touch  the  East  and  West. 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB.  47 

Or  ever  coal  was  hardened 

In  the  cells  of  earth, 
Or  flowed  the  founts  of  Bourbon, 

Lo  !  I  had  my  hirth. 
I  am  crowned  coeval 

With  the  Saurian  eggs, 
And  my  fancy  firmly 

Stands  on  its  own  legs. 

Wouldst  thou  know  the  secret 

Of  the  barberry -hush, 
Catch  the  slippery  whistle 

Of  the  moulting  thrush, 
Dance  upon  the  mushrooms, 

Dive  beneath  the  sea, 
Or  anything  else  remarkable, 

Thou  must  follow  me  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Well,  you  have  read  somewhat  more 
than  I  imagined,  Zo'ilus.  This  is  a  fair  imitation  of  the 
manner  of  some  of  Emerson's  earlier  poems ;  but  you 
may  take  heart,  Galahad,  if  you  fear  the  power  of  associa 
tion,  for  not  one  of  the  inimitable,  imperishable  passages 
has  been  suggested. 

ZOILUS.  Now,  seriously,  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
there  are  such  ? 

THE  ANCIENT. 

"  Still  on  the  seeds  of  all  he  made 

The  rose  of  beauty  burns  ; 
Through  times  that  wear,  and  forms  that  fade, 
Immortal  youth  returns." 


48     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

GALAHAD  (drawing  a  long  breath}.    How  beautiful ! 
THE  ANCIENT. 

"  Thou  canst  not  wave  thy  staff  in  air, 

Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake, 
But  it  carves  the  bow  of  Beauty  there, 

And  the  ripples  in  rhyme  the  oar  forsake." 

ZOILUS.     Peccavi ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Then  I  will  lock  up  my  half-unbolted 
thunders.  The  Master  does  not  need  my  vindication ; 
and  I  should  do  him  a  poor  service  by  trying  to  drive 
any  one  towards  the  recognition  of  his  deserts,  when  all 
who  think  for  themselves  must  come,  sooner  or  later,  to 
know  him. 

THE  GANNET.     But  I  never  saw  those  stanzas  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Yet  they  are  printed  for  all  the  world. 
The  segret  is  simply  this  :  Emerson  cut  from  his  limbs, 
long  ago,  the  old  theological  fetters,  as  every  independent 
thinker  must.  Those  who  run  along  in  the  ruts  made  by 
their  grandfathers,  unable  to  appreciate  the  exquisite  fibre 
of  his  intellect,  the  broad  and  grand  eclecticism  of  his 
taste,  suspect  a  heresy  in  every  sentence  which  they  are 
too  coarsely  textured  to  understand.  No  man  of  our  day 
habitually  lives  in  a  purer  region  of  thought. 

ZOILUS  (looking  at  his  watch).  Now,  we  must  know 
what  the  Gannet  has  been  doing. 

THE  GANNET.  My  name  was  Edmund  Clarence  Sted- 
man. 

THE  ANCIENT.  One  of  the  younger  tribes,  with  some 
of  whom  I'm  not  so  familiar.  I  have  caught  many  of 
his  "  fugitives,"  in  their  flight,  finding  them  of  a  kind 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     49 

sure  to  stay  where  they  touch,  instead  of  being  blown 
quietly  on  until  they  pass  forever  out  of  the  world. 
There  Js  a  fine  masculine  vibration  in  his  lines  :  he  sings 
in  the  major  key,  which  young  poets  generally  do  not. 
I  Jd  be  willing  to  bet  that  your  imitation  has  a  sportive, 
not  a  solemn,  character. 

THE  GANNET.  Why,  in  spite  of  your  disclaimer, 
you  Jre  not  so  ignorant.  Your  guess  is  right :  therefore, 
listen !  (Reads.) 

THE  GOLD-ROOM. 
AN  IDYL. 

They  come  from  mansions  far  up -town, 

And  from  their  country  villas, 
And  some,  Clmrybdis'  gulf  whirls  down, 

And  some  fall  into  Scylla's. 
Lo  !  here  young  Paris  climbs  the  stairs 

As  if  their  slope  were  Ida's, 
And  here  his  golden  touch  declares 

The  ass's  ears  of  Midas. 

It  seems  a  Bacchic,  brawling  rout 

To  every  business-scorner, 
But  such,  methinks,  must  be  an  "  out/' 

Or  has  not  made  a  "  corner." 
In  me  the  rhythmic  gush  revives ; 

I  feel  a  classic  passion  : 
We,  also,  lead  Arcadian  lives, 

Though  in  a  Broad-Street  fashion. 

Old  Battos,  here,  Js  a  leading  bull, 
And  Diomed  a  bear  is, 

3  D 


50  DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB. 

And  near  them,  shearing  bankers'  wool, 

Strides  the  Tiltonian  Charis  ; 
And  Atys,  there,  has  gone  to  smash, 

His  every  bill  protested, 
While  Cleon's  eyes  with  comfort  flash,  — 

/  have  his  funds  invested ! 

Mehercle  !  't  is  the  same  thing  yet 

As  in  the  days  of  Pindar  : 
The  Isthmian  race,  the  dust  and  sweat, 

The  prize  —  why,  what 's  to  hinder  ? 
And  if  I  twang  my  lyre  at  times, 

They  did  so  then,  I  reckon  ; 
That  man 's  the  best  at  modern  rhymes 

Whom  you  can  draw  a  check  on ! 

OMNES  (clapping  their  hands).     Bravo  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  To  think  of  Stedman's  being  the  only 
voice  in  our  literature  which  comes  out  of  the  business 
crowds  of  the  whole  country  !  The  man  who  can  spend 
his  days  in  a  purely  material  atmosphere,  and  sing  at 
night,  has  genuine  pluck  in  him.  It 's  enough  to  make 
any  green  poet,  who  wails  about  the  cruel  world,  and  the 
harsh  realities  of  life,  and  the  beautiful  realm  of  the  ideal, 
ashamed  of  himself ! 

GALAHAD  (annoyed).  You  don't  mean  as  much  as  you 
say !  Every  poet,  green  or  not,  must  have  faith  in  an 
ideal. 

THE  ANCIENT  (gently).    Ay,  but  if  it  make  him 

"  Pamper  the  coward  heart 
With  feelings  all  too  delicate  for  use," 


DIVEESIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     51 

as  Coleridge  translates  Schiller,  it  is  a  deceit  and  a  snare 
to  him.  Your  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Cervantes,  Goethe, 
were  made  of  different  clay. 

ZOILTJS.  Here  's  to  their  sublime  Shades,  wherever 
they  may  be  wandering  !  Out,  to  the  last  drop !  We 
are  in  the  small  hours  ;  the  Donnerwetters  !  are  all  silent 
in  the  saloon,  and  Karl  Schafer  is  probably  snoring  over 
his  counter,  waiting  for  us.  Come !  [Exeunt. 


NIGHT   THE   THIRD. 


HEN  the  sportive  tilting  with  light  lances,  the 
reciprocal,  good-natured  chaffing,  in  which  the 
members  of  the  Club  were  wont  to  indulge  on 
coming  together,  had  subsided,  the  conversa 
tion  took  the  following  turn  : 

ZOILUS  (to  THE  ANCIENT).  I've  been  considering 
what  you  said  the  last  time,  about  the  prevalent  literary 
taste  not  being  entirely  healthy.  How  far  would  you 
apply  that  verdict  to  the  authors  ?  Their  relative  popu 
larity  is  your  only  gauge  for  the  character  of  the  readers. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  don't  think  I  had  any  individual 
authors  in  my  mind,  at  the  time.  But  a  great  deal  of  all 
modern  literature  is  ephemeral,  created  from  day  to  day 
to  supply  a  certain  definite  demand,  and  sinking  out  of 
sight,  sooner  or  later.  Nine  readers  out  of  ten  make  no 
distinction  between  this  ephemeral  material  and  the  few 
works  which  really  belong  to  our  literary  history ;  that 
is,  they  confound  the  transitory  with  the  permanent  au 
thors. 

ZOILTJS.  So  far,  I  agree  with  you.  Now  the  inference 
would  be  that  those  nine  readers,  who  lack  the  finer 
judgment,  and  who,  of  course,  represent  the  prevalent 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     53 

taste,  are  responsible  for  the  success  of  the  transitory  au 
thors.  But  they  do  not  make  the  latter ;  they  do  not 
even  dictate  the  character  of  their  works  :  hence  the 
school,  no  matter  how  temporary  it  may  be,  must  be 
founded  by  the  authors,  —  which  obliges  us  to  admit  a 
certain  degree  of  originality  and  power. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  see  where  you  are  going ;  let  us 
have  no  reasoning  in  a  ring,  I  pray  you  !  If  you  admit 
the  two  classes  of  authors,  it  is  enough.  I  have  already 
seen  one  generation  forgotten,  and  I  fancy  I  now  see  the 
second  slipping  the  cables  of  their  craft,  and  making 
ready  to  drop  down  stream  with  the  ebb-tide.  I  remem 
ber,  for  instance,  that  in  1840  there  were  many  well- 
known  and  tolerably  popular  names,  which  are  never 
heard  now.  Byron  and  Mrs.  Hemans  then  gave  the  tone 
to  poetry,  and  Scott,  Buhver,  and  Cooper  to  fiction. 
Willis  was,  by  all  odds,  the  most  popular  American  au 
thor  ;  Longfellow  was  not  known  by  the  multitude, 
Emerson  was  only  "that  Transcendentalist,"  and  Whit- 
tier  "that  Abolitionist."  We  young  men  used  to  talk 
of  llufus  Dawes,  and  Charles  Fenno  Hoffman,  and  Gren- 
ville  Mellen,  and  Brainard,  and  Sands.  Why,  we  even 
had  a  hope  that  something  wonderful  would  come  out 
of  Chivers  ! 

OMNES.     Chivers  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Have  you  never  heard  of  Chivers  ? 
He  is  a  phenomenon ! 

THE  GA.NNET.  Does  n't  Poe  speak  of  him  some 
where  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  To  be  sure.  Poe  finished  the  ruin  of 
him  which  Shelley  began.  Dr.  Thomas  Holley  Chivers, 


54  DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB. 

of  Georgia,  author  of  "Yirginalia,"  "The  Lost  Pleiad," 
"Facets  of  Diamond/5  and  "Eonchs  of  Ruby  !  " 

ZOILUS.  What !  Come,  now,  this  is  only  a  len 
trovato. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Also  of  "Nacoochee,  the  Beautiful 
Star  "  ;  and  there  was  still  another  volume,  —  six  in  all ! 
The  British  Museum  has  the  only  complete  set  of  his 
works.  I  speak  the  sober  truth,  Zoilus  ;  a  friend  of  mine 
has  three  of  the  volumes,  and  I  can  show  them  to  you. 
One  of  the  finest  images  in  modern  poetry  is  in  his 
"Apollo":  - 

"Like  cataracts  of  adamant,  uplifted  into  mountains, 
Making  oceans  metropolitan,  for  the  splendor  of  the  dawn  !  " 

ZOILUS.     Incredible ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  remember  also  a  stanza  of  his 
"Rosalie  Lee":  — 

"  Many  mellow  Cydonian  suckets, 

Sweet  apples,  anthosmial,  divine, 
From  the  ruby-rimmed  beryline  buckets, 

Star-gemmed,  lily-shaped,  hyaline  ; 
Like  the  sweet  golden  goblet  fonnd  growing 

On  the  wild  emerald  cucumber-tree, 
Rich,  brilliant,  like  chrysoprase  glowing, 

Was  my  beautiful  Rosalie  Lee  !  " 

ZOILUS.     Hold,  bold !     I  can  endure  no  more. 

THE  ANCIENT.  You  see  what  comes  of  a  fashion  in 
literature.  There  was  many  a  youth  in  those  days  who 
made  attempts  just  as  idiotic,  in  the  columns  of  country 
papers  ;  and  perhaps  the  most  singular  circumstance 


DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB.  55 

was,  that  very  few  readers  laughed  at  them.  Why, 
there  are  expressions,  epithets,  images,  which  run  all 
over  the  land,  and  sometimes  last  for  a  generation.  I 
once  discovered  that  with  both  the  English  and  German 
poets  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  evening  is  always  called 
brown,  and  morning  either  rosy  or  purple.  Just  now  the 
fashion  runs  to  jewelry ;  we  have  ruby  lips,  and  topaz 
light,  and  sapphire  seas,  and  diamond  air.  Mrs.  Brown 
ing  even  says  :  — 

"  Her  cheek's  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and  restless  spark  !  " 

What  sort  of  a  cheek  must  that  be  ?  Then  we  have  such 
a  wealth  of  gorgeous  color  as  never  was  seen  before,  — 
no  quiet  half-tints,  but  pure  pigments,  laid  on  with  a  pal 
let-knife,  lleally,  I  sometimes  feel  a  distinct  sense  of 
fatigue  at  the  base  of  the  optic  nerve,  after  reading  a 
magazine  story.  The  besetting  sin  of  the  popular  —  not 
the  best  —  authors  is  the  intense. 

ZOILUS.  Why  do  you  call  intensity  of  expression  a 
sin  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  mean  intensity  of  epithet:  the 
strongest  expression  is  generally  the  briefest  and  barest. 
Take  the  old  ballads  of  any  people,  and  you  will  find  few 
adjectives.  The  singer  says  :  "  He  laughed  ;  she  wept." 
Perhaps  the  poet  of  a  more  civilized  age  might  say :  "He 
laughed  in  scorn ;  she  turned  away  and  shed  tears  of 
disappointment."  But  nowadays,  the  ambitious  young 
writer  must  produce  something  like  this  :  "A  hard, 
fiendish  laugh,  scornful  and  pitiless,  forced  its  passage 
from  his  throat  through  the  lips  that  curled  in  mockery 
of  her  appeal;  she  covered  her  despairing  face,  and  a 


56  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

gust  and  whirlwind  of  sorrowing  agony  burst  forth  in  her 
irresistible  tears  !  " 

OMNES  (clapping  their  hands).     Go  on  !     Go  on  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  It  is  enough  of  the  Bowery,  for  to 
night. 

GALAHAD.  0,  you  forget  the  intenser  life  of  our  day ! 
I  see  the  exaggeration  of  which  you  speak,  but  I  believe 
something  of  it  comes  from  the  struggle  to  express  more. 
All  our  senses  have  grown  keener,  our  natures  respond 
more  delicately,  and  to  a  greater  range  of  influences,  than 
those  of  the  generations  before  us.  There  is  a  finer 
moral  development ;  our  aims  in  life  have  become  spirit 
ualized  ;  we  may  have  less  power,  less  energy  of  genius, 
but  we  move  towards  higher  and  purer  goals. 

ZOILTJS.  The  writers  of  Queen  Anne's  time  might 
have  compared  themselves  in  the  same  way  with  their 
predecessors  in  Charles  II. 5s.  What  if  your  own  poems 
should  be  considered  coarse  and  immoral  a  hundred  years 
hence  ? 

GALAHAD  (bewildered) .  What  has  that  to  do  with  the 
question  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Only  this ;  that  there  are  eternal  laws 
of  Art,  to  which  the  moral  and  spiritual  aspirations  of 
the  author,  which  are  generally  relative  to  his  own  or 
the  preceding  age,  must  conform, -if  they  would  also 
become  eternal. 

THE  GANNET.  Yery  fine,  indeed  ;  but  you  are  all  for 
getting  our  business. 

ZOILUS.     Let  us  first  add  a  fresh  supply  of  names. 

THE  GANNET.  Write  them  yourself;  we  shall  other 
wise  repeat. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     57 

(ZoiLUS  writes  a  dozen  or  more  slips,  whereupon  they  draw.} 

GALAHAD.     Dante  Rossetti ! 

ZOILUS.     I  have  Barry  Cornwall. 

THE  GANNET.     And  I  —  Whittier. 

OMNES.     Whittier  must  not  be  parodied. 

GALAHAD  (earnestly).     Draw  another  name  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.     Why  ? 

GALAHAD.  There  is  at  once  an  evidence  of  what  I 
said !  Where  are  your  jewelry  and  colors  ?  On  the 
other  side,  where  will  you  find  an  intenser  faith,  a  more 
ardent  aspiration  for  truth  and  good  ?  The  moral  and 
spiritual  element  is  so  predominant  in  him,  — so  wedded 
for  time  and  eternity  to  his  genius  as  a  poet,  —  that  you 
cannot  imitate  him  without  seeming  to  slight,  or  in  some 
way  offend,  what  should  be  as  holy  to  us  as  to  him ! 

THE  ANCIENT  (laying  his  hand  on  GALAHAD'S  shoul 
der}.  My  dear  boy,  Whittier  deserves  all  the  love  and 
reverence  you  are  capable  of  giving  him.  He  is  just  as 
fine  an  illustration  of  my  side  of  the  question  :  his  poetic 
art  has  refined-  and  harmonized  that  moral  quality  in  his 
nature,  which,  many  years  ago,  made  his  poetry  seem 
partisan,  and,  therefore,  not  unmixed  poetry.  But  the 
alloy  (in  a  poetic  sense,  only)  has  been  melted  out  in  the 
pure  and  steady  flame  of  his  intellect,  and  the  preacher 
in  him  has  now  his  rightful  authority  because  he  no  longer 
governs  the  poet.  As  for  those  poems  which  exhale  de 
votion  and  aspiration  as  naturally  as  a  violet  exhales  odor, 
there  is  no  danger  of  the  Gannet  imitating  them  ;  he  has 
not  the  power  even  if  he  had  the  will.  But  Whittier  has 
also  written  — • 

THE  GANNET.  Don't  you  see  I  'm  hard  at  work  ? 
3* 


58  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

What  do  you  mean  by  dictating  what  I  may  or  may  not 
do?  I  am  already  well  launched,  and  (declaiming)  "I 
seek  no  change ;  and,  least  of  all,  such  change  as  you 
would  give  rne  !  " 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  can't  help  you,  Galahad;  go  on 
with  your  own  work  now.  I  have  drawn  one  of  the 
youngsters,  this  time,  and  mean  to  turn  him  over  to  you 
when  you  have  slaughtered  Rossetti. 

GALAHAD.     Who  is  he  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.     A  brother  near  your  throne. 

ZOILUS  (to  THE  ANCIENT).  I  have  done  Barry  Corn 
wall  ;  it 's  an  easy  task.  He  is  nearly  always  very  brief. 
His  are  not  even  short  swallow-flights  of  song,  but  little 
hops  from  one  twig  to  another.  While  Galahad  and  the 
Gannet  are  finishing  theirs,  repeat  to  me  something  more 
of  Chivers  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  can  only  recall  fragments,  here  and 
there.  The  refrain  to  a  poem  called  "  The  Poet's  Voca 
tion,"  in  the  "  Eonchs  of  Ruby,"  is :  — 

"  In  the  music  of  the  morns, 

Blown  through  the  Conchimarian  horns, 
Down  the  dark  vistas  of  the  reboantic  Norns, 
To  the  Genius  of  Eternity, 
Crying  :  '  Come  to  me  !  Come  to  me  ! '  " 

ZOILUS.  Ye  gods !  It  is  amazing.  Why  can't  you 
write  a  stanza  in  his  manner  ? 

THE  ANCIENT  (smiling).  I  think  I  can  even  equal 
him. 

(lie  takes  a  pencil  and  writes  rapidly.  Just  as  he  finishes, 
GALAHAD  and  THE  GANNET  lay  down  their  pencils  and 
lean  back  in  their  seats.) 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB.  59 

THE  CHORUS  (eagerly) .  We  must  first  hear  the  An 
cient  !  He  is  a  medium  for  the  great  Chivers. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  have  been  merciful  towards  you. 
One  stanza  will  suffice.  (Reads) 

Beloved  of  the  wanderer's  father 

That  walks  mid  the  agates  of  June, 
The  wreaths  of  .remorse  that  I  gather 

Were  torn  from  the  turrets  of  Rune ; 
"When  the  star-patterns  hroidered  so  brilliant 

Shone  forth  from  the  diapered  blue, 
And  the  moon  dropped  her  balsam  scintilliant, 

Soul-nectar  for  me  and  for  you  ! 

THE  GANNET.  Send  for  a  physician ;  tie  a  wet  towel 
around  his  head !  A  thousand  years  hence,  when  the 
human  race  comes  back  to  polytheism,  Chivers  will  be 
the  god  of  all  crack-brained  authors. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  recognize  a  fantastic  infection. 
Come,  Zoilus,  give  me  a  tonic  ! 

ZOILUS.  Wine  has  become  a  very  fashionable  tonic, 
and  that  is  just  what  I  have  put  into  Barry  Cornwall's 
mouth.  (Reads.) 

SONG. 

Talk  of  dew  on  eglantine,  — 
Stuff!  the  poet's  drink  is  wine. 
Black  as  quaffed  by  old  King  Death, 
That  which  biteth,  maddoneth  ; 
For  my  readers  fain  would  see 
What  effect  it  has  on  me. 


60     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

Nose  may  redden,  head  may  swim, 
Joints  be  loose  in  every  limb, 
And  the  golden  rhymes  I  chant 
Sheer  away  on  wings  aslant, 
Whale  may  whistle,  porpoise  roll, 
Yet  I  '11  drain  the  gentle  bowl ! 

Pleasure's  dolphin  gambols  near  ; 
Virtue's  mackerel  looks  austere  ; 
Duty's  hippopotamus 
Waddles  forward,  leaving  us  ; 
Joy,  the  sturgeon,  leaps  and  soars, 
While  we  coast  the  Teian  shores  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  What  a  fearful  Bacchanalian  you  have 
made  of  good  and  gentle  Barry  Cornwall !  You  must 
have  been  possessed  by  Poe's  "  Imp  of  the  Perverse,"  to 
yoke  liis  manner  to  such  a  subject.  I  was  expecting  to 
hear  something  of  spring  and  clover  and  cowslips.  Fait  h  ! 
I  believe  I  could  improvise  an  imitation.  Wait  a  second ! 
Now :  — 

When  spring  returneth, 

And  cowslips  blow, 
The  milkmaid  churneth 

Her  creamy  snow, 
The  mill-wheel  spurneth 

The  stream  below ; 

The  cherry-tree  skippeth  in  earth  and  air, 
The  small  bird  calleth  :  beware,  prepare  1 
And  all  is  fair  ! 

OMNES.    Another  stanza ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  O,  you  have  but  to  turn  things  up 
side  down,  and  there  it  is :  — 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB.  61 

The  cold  wind  bloweth 

O'er  brake  and  burn, 
The  cream  o'erfloweth 

The  tilted  churn, 
The  mill-wheel  sloweth, 

And  fails  to  turn  ; 

The  cherry-tree  sheddeth  her  leaves  in  the  fall, 
The  crow  and  the  clamoring  raven  call, 
And  that  is  all ! 

But,  seriously,  Galahad,  after  what  Zo'ilus  has  done,  I 
am  a  little  afraid  of  the  Gannet's  work.  Suppose  lie 
should  make  our  beloved  Whittier 

"  Troll  a  careless  tavern-catch 
Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experiences 
Unmeet  for  ladies  "  ? 

GALAHAD  {earnestly).  Then  I  should  withdraw  from 
the  Club. 

THE  GANNET.  Prythee,  peace,  young  hotspur !  I  '11 
agree  to  start  with  you  for  Massachusetts  by  to-morrow 
morning's  express  train,  and  lay  before  the  poet  what 
I  've  written.  If  he  does  n't  laugh  heartily,  on  reading 
it,  I  '11  engage  to  come  all  the  way  back  afoot. 

THE  ANCIENT.     We  can  decide  for  him :  read ! 

THE  GANNET.  It  is  a  ballad  of  New  England  life 
which  you  shall  hear.  (Reads) 

THE  BALLAD   OF  HIRAM   HOVER. 

Where  the  Moosatockmaguntic 
Pours  its  waters  in  the  Skuntic, 

Met,  along  the  forest-side, 

Hiram  Hover,  Huldah  Hyde. 


62     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

She,  a  maiden  fair  and  dapper, 
He,  a  red-haired,  stalwart  trapper, 

Hunting  beaver,  mink,  and  skunk, 
In  the  woodlands  of  Squeedunk. 

She,  Pentucket's  pensive  daughter, 
Walked  beside  the  Skuntic  water, 
Gathering,  in  her  apron  wet, 
Snakeroot,  mint,  and  bouncing-bet. 

"  Why,"  he  murmured,  loath  to  leave  her, 
"  Gather  yarbs  for  chills  and  fever, 
When  a  lovyer,  bold  and  true, 
Only  waits  to  gather  you  ?  " 

"  Go,"  she  answered,  "  I  'm  not  hasty  ; 

I  prefer  a  man  more  tasty  : 

Leastways,  one  to  please  me  well 
Should  not  have  a  beasty  smell." 

"  Haughty  Huldah  !  "  Hiram  answered ; 

"  Mind  and  heart  alike  are  cancered : 
Jest  look  here  !  these  peltries  give 
Cash,  wherefrom  a  pair  may  live. 

"  I,  you  think,  am  but  a  vagrant, 
Trapping  beasts  by  no  means  fragrant ; 
Yet  —  I  'm  sure  it 's  worth  a  thank  - 
I  've  a  handsome  sum  in  bank." 

Turned  and  vanished  Hiram  Hover  ; 

And,  before  the  year  was  over, 

Huldah,  with  the  yarbs  she  sold, 
Bought  a  cape,  against  the  cold. 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  63 

Black  and  thick  the  furry  cape  was  ; 
Of  a  stylish  cut  the  shape  was ; 

And  the  girls,  in  all  the  town, 

Envied  Huldah  up  and  down. 

Then,  at  last,  one  winter  morning, 

Hiram  came,  without  a  warning  : 

"  Either,"  said  he,  "  you  are  hlirid, 
Huldah,  or  you  've  changed  your  mind. 

"  Me  you  snub  for  trapping  varmints, 
Yet  you  take  the  skins  for  garments  : 

Since  you  wear  the  skunk  and  mink, 

There  's  110  harm  in  me,  I  think." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  we  will  not  quarrel, 
Hiram :  I  accept  the  moral. 

Now  the  fashion  's  so,  I  guess 

I  can't  hardly  do  no  less." 

Thus  the  trouble  all  was  over 
Of  the  love  of  Hiram  Hover  ; 

Thus  he  made  sweet  Huldah  Hyde 

Huldah  Hover,  as  his  bride. 

Love  employs,  with  equal  favor, 

Things  of  good  and  evil  savor  ; 

That,  which  first  appeared  to  part, 
Warmed,  at  last,  the  maiden's  heart. 

Under  one  impartial  banner, 
Life,  the  hunter,  Love,  the  tanner, 

Draw,  from  every  beast  they  snare, 

Comfort  for  a  wedded  pair  ! 


64     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

ZOILUS.  The  Gannet  distances  us  all  to-night.  Even 
Galahad  is  laughing  yet,  and  I  saw,  when  the  reading 
began,  that  he  was  resolved  not  to  smile,  if  he  could  help 
it.  What  does  our  Ancient  think  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  It  does,  certainly,  suggest  the  style 
of  some  of  Whittier's  delightful  ballads,  only  substituting 
a  comical  for  an  earnest  motive.  Change  that  motive 
and  a  few  expressions,  and  it  would  become  a  serious 
poem.  The  Gannet  was  lucky  in  striking  the  proper  key 
at  the  start.  And  here,  perhaps,  is  one  result  of  our 
diversions,  upon  which  we  had  not  calculated,  over  and 
above  the  fun.  I  don't  see  why  poets  should  not  drill 
themselves  in  all  that  is  technical,  as  well  as  painters, 
sculptors,  opera-singers,  or  even  orators.  All  the  facul 
ties  called  into  play  to  produce  rhythm,  harmony  of 
words,  richness  of  the  poetical  dialect,  choice  of  keys  and 
cadences,  may  be  made  nimbler,  more  active,  and  more 
obedient  to  command,  by  even  mechanical  practice.  I 
never  rightly  believed  in  the  peculiar  solemnity  of  the 
poet's  gift ;  every  singer  should  have  a  gay,  sportive  side 
to  his  nature.  I  am  sure  the  young  Shakespeare  would 
have  heartily  joined  in  what  we  are  here  doing ;  the 
young  Goethe,  we  know,  did  many  a  similar  thing.  He 
was  a  capital  improvvisatore  ;  and  who  knows  how  much 
of  his  mastery  over  all  forms  of  poetry  may  not  have  come 
from  just  such  gymnastics  ? 

GALAHAD.  Might  not  an  aptness  in  representing  the 
manner  of  others  —  like  that  of  an  actor  who  assumes  a 
different  character  every  night — indicate  some  lack  of 
original  force  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.    The  comparison  is  deceptive.     An 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     65 

actor's  sole  business  is  to  assume  other  individualities. 
What  we  do  is  no  more  than  every  novelist  does,  in  talk 
ing  as  a  young  girl,  an  old  man,  a  saint,  or  a  sinner.  If 
anything  of  yourself  is  lost  in  the  process,  and  you  can't 
get  it  back  again,  why  —  let  it  go  ! 

ZOILUS.     You  have  it  now,  Galahad  ! 

GALAHAD.  Well,  I  '11  cover  my  confusion  by  transfer 
ring  myself  into  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  (Reads.) 

CIMABUELLA. 

i. 

Fair-tinted  cheeks,  clear  eyelids  drawn 

In  crescent  curves  above  the  light 
Of  eyes,  whose  dim,  uncertain  dawn 

Becomes  not  day  :  a  forehead  white 
Beneath  long  yellow  heaps  of  hair  : 
She  is  so  strange  she  must  he  fair. 


Had  she  sharp,  slant-wise  wings  outspread, 
She  were  an  angel ;  but  she  stands 

With  flat  dead  gold  behind  her  head, 
And  lilies  in  her  long  thin  hands  : 

Her  folded  mantle,  gathered  in, 

Falls  to  her  feet  as  it  were  tin. 

in. 
Her  nose  is  keen  as  pointed  flame  ; 

Her  crimson  lips  no  thing  express  ; 
And  never  dread  of  saintly  blame 

Held  down  her  heavy  eyelashes  : 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

To  guess  what  she  were  thinking  of 
Precludeth  any  meaner  love. 

IV. 

ATI  azure  carpet,  fringed  with  gold, 
Sprinkled  with  scarlet  spots,  I  laid 

Before  her  straight,  cool  feet  unrolled  : 
But  she  nor  sound  nor  movement  made 

(Albeit  I  heard  a  soft,  shy  smile, 

Printing  her  neck  a  moment's  while)  ; 

v. 
And  I  was  shamed  through  all  my  mind 

For  that  she  spake  not,  neither  kissed, 
But  stared  right  past  me.     Lo  !  behind 

Me  stood,  in  pink  and  amethyst, 
Sword-girt  and  velvet-doubleted, 
A  tall,  gaunt  youth,  with  frowzy  head, 


Wide  nostrils  in  the  air,  dull  eyes, 
Thick  lips  that  simpered,  but,  ah  me  ! 

I  saw,  with  most  forlorn  surprise, 
He  was  the  Thirteenth  Century, 

I  but  the  Nineteenth  ;  then  despair 

Curdled  beneath  my  curling  hair. 

VIT. 
O,  Love  and  Fate !     How  could  she  choose 

My  rounded  outlines,  broader  brain, 
And  my  resuscitated  Muse  ? 

Some  tears  she  shed,  but  whether  pain 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     67 

Or  joy  in  him  unlocked  their  ^source, 
I  could  not  fathom  which,  of  course. 


But  I  from  missals,  quaintly  bound, 

With  cither  and  with  clavichord 
Will  sing  her  songs  of  sovran  sound  : 

Belike  her  pity  will  afford 
Such  faint  return  as  suits  a  saint 
So  sweetly  done  in  verse  and  paint. 

THE  GANNET.  O  Galahad!  Who  could  have  ex 
pected  this  of  you? 

GALAHAD.  You  know  I  like  Rossetti's  poems,  but, 
really,  I  could  n't  help  it,  after  I  once  got  under  way. 

THE  GANNET.  Rossetti  is  picturesque,  whatever  else 
he  may  not  be.  His  poetry  has  a  delicate  flavor  of  its 
own,  and  that  is  much  to  me,  in  these  days,  when  so 
many  dishes  seem  to  be  cooked  with  the  same  sauce.  A 
poet  is  welcome  to  go  back  to  the  thirteenth  century,  if 
he  only  fetches  us  pictures.  Poetry  belongs  to  luxurious 
living,  as  much  as  "painting  and  music ;  hence  we  must 
value  color,  rhythmical  effect,  quaint  and  unexpected  play 
of  fancy,  and  every  other  quality  that  makes  verse  bright 
and  sparkling.  The  theme  is  of  less  importance.  Take, 
for  instance,  Victor  Hugo's  Orientales. 

ZOILUS.  Pray,  let  us  not  open  that  discussion  again  ! 
You  know,  already,  how  far  I  go  with  you,  and  just 
where  Galahad  and  The  Ancient  stand.  We  should 
rather  confine  ourselves  directly  to  the  authors  we  imi 
tate.  Now,  I  think  Rossetti's  book  on  the  Early  Italian 
Poets  better  than  his  own  poems.  Perhaps  it  was  the 

f  "     OF  THB 

iTTNIVERSrr 


68      DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

attempt  to  reproduce  those  poets  in  English  which  has 
given  the  mediaeval  coloring  to  his  verse.  We  cannot 
undertake  to  say  how  much  of  the  manner  is  natural,  and 
how  much  assumed;  for  a  thirteenth  or  even  a  second 
century  nature  may  be  born  nowadays.  But  it  is  none 
the  less  out  of  harmony  with  our  thought  and  feeling,  and 
the  encouragement  of  such  a  fashion  in  literature  strikes 
me  as  being  related  to  the  Pre-Raphaelite  hallucination 
in  art.  I  should  like  to  have  the  Ancient's  opinion  on 
this  point. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Here  is  your  other  name,  Galahad. 
(Gives  him  a  slip  of  paper.)  If  there  were  not  so  much 
confusion  of  taste,  Zo'ilus,  —  such  an  uncertainty  in  re 
gard  to  the  unchanging  standards  of  excellence,  in  litera 
ture  and  art,  —  I  could  answer  you  in  a  few  words.  We 
must  judge  these  anachronistic  developments  (as  they 
seem)  by  those  which  provoked  them.  A  movement  may 
be  false  in  itself,  yet  made  necessary  by  some  antecedent 
illusion  or  inanity.  If  you  want  to  leave  port,  almost 
any  craft  will  answer.  I  might  carry  out  the  image,  and 
add  that  we  never  can  foresee  what  side-winds  may  come 
to  force  the  vessel  to  some  other  shore  than  that  for  which 
she  seems  bound.  I  have  carefully  read  Rossetti's  book, 
as  one  of  the  many  phenomena  of  the  day.  It  seems  to 
me  that  there  is  a  genuine  thread  of  native  poetry  in 
him,  but  so  encumbered  with  the  burden  of  color,  sensu 
ous  expression,  and  mediaeval  imagery  and  drapery,  that 
it  often  is  nearly  lost.  What  I  have  heard  of  the  author 
explains  to  me  the  existence  of  the  volume ;  but  its  im 
mediate  popularity  is  something  which  I  should  not  have 
anticipated. 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  69 

GALAHAD.     I  have  written. 

THE  GANNET.     Already  ?     Who  was  it,  then  ? 

GALAHAD.  A  personal  friend,  whose  poems  I  know  by 
heart,  —  Thomas  Bailey  Aid  rich.  Therefore,  I  couldn't 
well  avoid  violating  our  rule,  for  a  special  little  rhyme 
popped  into  my  head,  and  imitated  myself.  If  Aldrich 
were  not  living  in  Boston,  we  should  have  him  here  with 
us  to-night,  and  he  would  be  quite  ready  to  burlesque 
himself.  (Heads.) 

PALABRAS   GRANDIOSAS. 

I  lay  i'  the  bosom  of  the  sun, 

Under  the  roses  dappled  and  dun. 

I  thought  of  the  Sultan  Gingerbeer, 

In  his  palace  beside  the  Bsndemeer, 

With  his  Affghan  guards  and  his  eunuchs  blind, 

And  the  harem  that  stretched  for  a  league  behind. 

The  tulips  bent  i'  the  summer  breeze, 

Under  the  broad  chrysanthemum -trees, 

And  the  minstrel,  playing  his  culverin, 

Made  for  mine  ears  a  merry  din. 

If  I  were  the  Sultan,  and  he  were  I, 

Here  i'  the  grass  he  should  loafing  lie, 

And  I  should  bestride  my  zebra  steed, 

And  ride  to  the  hunt  of  the  centipede  : 

While  the  pet  of  the  harem,  Dandeline, 

Should  fill  me  a  crystal  bucket  of  wine, 

And  the  kislar  aga,  Up-to-Snuff, 

Should  wipe  my  mouth  when  I  sighed,  "  Enough  !  " 

And  the  gay  court-poet,  Fearfulbore, 

Should  sit  in  the  hall  when  the  hunt  was  o'er, 


70  DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

And  chant  me  songs  of  silvery  tone, 
Not  from  Hafiz,  but — mine  own  ! 

Ah,  wee  sweet  love,  beside  me  here, 
I  am  not  the  Sultan  Gingerbeer, 
Nor  you  the  odalisque  Dandeline, 
Yet  I  am  yourn,  and  you  are  mine  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  There 's  a  delicate,  elusive  quality 
about  Aldricli's  short  lyrics,  which  I  should  think  very 
difficult  to  catch.  I  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of 
poor  George  Arnold  writing  something. 

ZOILUS.  It  was  all  about  a  mistake  Aldrich  made, 
years  ago,  in  the  color  of  a  crocus.  He  call  it  red,  and 
there  may  be  red  crocuses  for  aught  I  know  ;  but  yellow 
or  orange  is  the  conventional  color.  Of  course  we  did  n't 
let  the  occasion  slip ;  we  were  all  unmerciful  towards 
each  other.  I  remember  I  wrote  something  like  this  :  — 

I  walked  in  the  garden,  ruffled  with  rain, 
Through  the  blossoms  of  every  hue  ; 

And  I  saw  the  piuk,  with  its  yellow  stain, 
And  the  rose,  with  its  bud  of  blue. 

George  Arnold's  lines  were  :  — 

And  all  about  the  porphyry  plates  were  strewn 
The  blue  arbutus  of  the  early  June, 
The  crimson  lemon  and  the  purple  yam, 
And  dainties  brought  from  Seringapatam  ! 

THE  GANNET.  They  are  better  than  yours.  Well, 
I  'm  glad  that  Galahad  has  not  confused  our  color,  at 
least.  I  specially  like  Aldrich ;  for  he  is  faithful  to  his 


DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB.  71 

talent,  and  gives  us  nothing  that  is  not  daintily  polished 
and  rounded.  Some  of  his  fragments  remind  me  of 
Genoese  filigree-work,  there  seems  to  be  so  much  elabora 
tion  in  a  small  compass ;  yet  only  sport,  not  labor,  is 
suggested.  He,  also,  has  ceased  to  sing  in  the  minor 
key ;  but  I  don't  think  he  ever  affected  it  much. 

THE  ANCIENT  (earnestly).  I'm  glad  to  hear  it!  O 
ye  cheerful  gods  of  all  great  poets,  shall  we  never  have 
an  end  of  weeping  and  wailing  and  lamentation  !  Is  the 
world  nothing  but  a  cavern  of  sorrow,  and  the  individual 
life  a  couch  of  thorns  ?  Must  we  have  always  bats,  and 
never  skylarks,  in  the  air  of  poetry  ? 

ZOILUS.  Hear,  hear !  I  have  not  seen  the  Ancient 
so  roused  this  many  a  day. 

THE  ANCIENT.     The  truth  always  excites. 

GALAHAD.  Before  you  put  on  your  hats,  let  us  have 
one  more  "lagor."  (The  glasses  are  filled?}  Now,  to 
the  health  of  all  our  young  authors  ! 

THE  GANNET.  Here's  to  them  heartily, — for  that 
includes  ourselves. 

THE  ANCIENT.     As  the  youngest,  I  return  thanks. 

[Exeunt. 


NIGHT   THE   FOURTH. 


LL  the  members  of  the  club  were  assembled, 
but  the  Ancient  had  not  yet  made  his  appear 
ance.  He  was  dining  that  evening,  as  it  hap 
pened,  with  a  wealthy  banker,  and  there  was 
no  possibility  of  omitting  one  of  the  seventeen  courses, 
or  escaping  before  the  coffee  and  liqueurs.  As  the  oldest 
of  the  members,  the  duties  of  chairman  were  always  con 
ferred  on  him  whenever  a  decision  became  necessary,  and 
all  assumed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the  Diversions 
should  be  suspended  until  his  arrival.  But  the  conversa 
tion,  meanwhile,  settled  upon  him  as  its  subject.  Zo'ilus 
and  one  of  the  Chorus  were  not  as  old  acquaintances  as 
the  Gannet  and  Galahad,  which  circumstance  led,  after 
his  nature  had  been  genially  discussed,  to  the  following 
digression  :  — 

ZOILUS  (to  THE  GANNET).  I  had  not  often  met  him 
familiarly,  in  this  way,  before.  He  is  a  good,  mellow- 
natured  companion,  and  not  at  all  dogmatic,  that  is,  in  a 
direct  way;  but  I  can  see  the  influence  of  his  Boston 
associations.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  external  tact  and 
propriety  in  that  city.  Now,  our  impetuous,  keen,  inci 
sive  atmosphere  — 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     73 

THE  GANNET  (interrupting).  Spare  me  the  "incisive"  ! 
It  has  been  overdone,  as  an  effect,  and  will  be  the  ruin  of 
you,  yet.  If  I  had  as  much  faith  as  Galahad  there,  I 
should  believe  as  the  Ancient  does.  But,  since  you  will 
have  the  "incisive,"  where  can  you  find  sentences  more 
clearly  cut  —  the  very  intaglio  of  style  —  than  in  Holmes  ? 

ZOILUS  (angrily).  And  do  you  remember  what  he 
wrote  of  our  New  York  authors,  — 

"  Whose  fame,  beyond  their  own  abode, 
Extends  —  for  miles  along  the  Harlem  road  "  ? 

THE  GANNET.  Yes,  and  don't  you  know  who  they 
were  ?  Why,  their  fame  does  n't  reach  up  to  Twenty- 
third  Street,  now  !  It  was  a  deliberate  attempt,  by  a 
small  clique,  to  manufacture  the  Great  American  Litera 
ture.  The  materials  were  selected  in  advance,  the  style 
and  manner  settled,  and  then  the  great  authors  went  to 
work.  Like  the  Chinese  mechanics  who  copied  a  steam 
boat,  the  external  imitation  was  perfect ;  but  there  were 
no  inside  works,  and  it  would  n't  move  a  paddle  !  When 
you  speak  of  our  legitimate  authors,  here  in  New  York, 
what  name  first  comes  to  your  lips  ?  Bryant,  of  course ; 
and  have  you  forgotten  how  Holmes  celebrated  him  ?  and 
how  his  was  the  only  garland  of  verse  thrown  upon  Hal- 
leek's  grave  ? 

ZOILUS.  Nevertheless,  they  systematically  depreciate 
what  we  do ;  they  are  only  kind  and  considerate  towards 
one  another.  You  remember  Poe's  experience  ? 

THE  ANCIENT  (entering  the  room).     Which  one,  pray  ? 

ZOILUS.  Of  Boston.  But  they  did  not  and  have  not 
put  hiai  down ! 

4 


74  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Why,  no ;  he  put  himself  down,  that 
time :  I  happened  to  be  there,  and  I  saw  the  performance. 
I  guess  that  you  and  the  Gannet  have  been  repeating  your 
usual  tilt ;  why  not  say,  as  Goethe  did  of  the  comparisons 
made  between  himself  and  Schiller,  "  Instead  of  quarrel 
ling  about  which  of  us  is  the  greater,  people  ought  simply 
to  be  thankful  for  having  us  both "  ?  Thirty  or  forty 
years  ago,  when  Lowell  and  Whipple  were  boys,  Long 
fellow  and  Holmes  young  authors,  Emerson  considered 
little  better  than  daft,  and  Whittier  almost  outlawed  on 
account  of  his  antislavery  opinions,  the  literary  society 
here  included  Irving,  Cooper,  Bryant,  Willis,  and  Hal- 
leck,  then  the  foremost  American  authors.  The  chief 
literary  periodicals  were  here  and  in  Philadelphia ;  and 
Boston,  although  the  average  of  intellectual  culture  was 
always  higher  there  than  elsewhere,  occupied  quite  a  sec 
ondary  place.  But  I  don't  remember  that  there  was  ever 
any  jealousy  or  rivalry ;  and  I  confess  I  can't  understand 
the  spirit  which  fosters  such  a  feeling  now. 

ZOILUS.  You  have  passed  the  age  when  you  care  for 
recognition. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Have  I,  indeed?  Pray,  when  does 
that  age  cease  ?  If  I  had  a  more  general  recognition,  at 
present, — by  which  I  mean  the  ascription  to  me  of  ex 
actly  the  literary  qualities  which  I  think  I  possess,  —  I 
should  be  stimulated  to  do  more  and  possibly  better  work. 
I  began  authorship  at  a  time  when  there  was  not  much 
discrimination  between  varieties  of  literary  talent,  when 
such  fearful  stuff  as  "  Agathe,  a  Necromaunt :  in  Three 
Chimaeras,"  by  a  man  named  Tasistro,  was  published  in 
"  Graham's  Magazine,"  and  when  a  dentist  in  Rhode 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     75 

Island  wrote  a  poem  in  heroic  verse,  called  "  The  Den- 
tiad." 

THE  GANNET.     What  was  his  name  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Solyman  Brown.  I  must  quote  to 
you  an  exquisite  passage  :  — 

"  Whene'er  along  the  ivory  disks  are  seen 
The  rapid  traces  of  the  dark  gangrene, 
"When  caries  come,  with  stealthy  pace,  to  throw 
Corrosive  ink-spots  on  those  hanks  of  snow, 
Brook  no  delay,  ye  trembling,  suffering  Fair, 
But  fly  for  refuge  to  the  dentist's  care. 
His  practised  hand,  obedient  to  his  will, 
Employs  the  slender  file  with  nicest  skill ; 
Just  sweeps  the  germin  of  disease  away, 
And  stops  the  fearful  progress  of  decay." 

ZOILUS.  The  latest  nursling  of  Darwin's  "  Botanic 
Garden " !  It  is  not  antithetical  enough  for  Pope. 
Surely,  that  was  not  a  popular  poem  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  was  too  young  to  know.  I  only 
mention  it  as  one  of  the  chaotic  elements  out  of  which 
has  grown  what  little  permanent  literature  we  now  have. 
Probably  three  fourths  of  the  writers  then  commencing 
their  career  might  have  developed  some  sound  practical 
ability,  with  a  little  intelligent  guidance ;  they  were  not 
strong  enough  to  beat  their  own  way  out  of  the  wilder 
ness.  When  I  look  back  upon  the  time,  I  can  see  the 
bones  of  immortal  works  bleaching  on  all  sides. 

THE  GANNET.  As  ours  will  bleach  for  the  young  fel 
lows  who  sit  here  in  1900  !  While  you  were  speaking, 
the  thought  occurred  to  me  that  no  young  poet  in  Eng- 


76  DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

land  can  possibly  be  as  green  at  his  entrance  into  litera 
ture  as  the  most  of  us  must  inevitably  be.  I  begin  to  see 
that  a  conventional  standard  is  better  than  none  ;  for  if  it 
does  not  guide,  it  provokes  resistance ;  either  way,  there 
fore,  the  neophyte  acquires  a  definite  form  and  style. 

THE  ANCIENT.  To  that  extent,  I  agree  with  you.' 
But  we  also  have  a  standard,  only  those  who  accept  it  are 
fewer,  and  so  scattered  over  the  whole  country  that  their 
authority  is  not  immediately  felt.  They  distinguish  be 
tween  what  is  temporary  and  what  is  permanent,  in  spite 
of  the  general  public.  And  this  ought  to  be  our  great 
comfort,  if  we  are  in  earnest,  that  no  power  on  earth  can 
keep  alive  a  sensational  reputation. 

ZOILUS.  How  do  you  account  for  the  popularity  of 
such  single  poems  as  "  The  River  of  Time,"  (is  that  the 
title  of  it  ?)  and  "  Beautiful  Snow,"  and  "  Rock  me  to 
sleep,  Mother  ?  "  Why,  hardly  a  week  passes,  but  I  see 
a  newspaper  dispute  about  the  authorship  of  one  or  the 
other  of  them !  To  me  they  are  languishing  sentiment, 
not  poetry. 

THE  ANCIENT.  "  Sentiment "  sufficiently  accounts  for 
their  popularity.  Put  some  tender,  thoroughly  obvious 
sentiment  into  rhyme  which  sounds  like  the  melody  of  a 
popular  song,  and  it  will  go  through  hides  which  are  im 
pervious  to  the  keenest  arrows  of  the  imagination.  But 
how  much  more  unfortunate  for  us,  if  it  were  not  so ! 
This  gives  us  just  the  fulcrum  we  need  if  our  literature  is 
ever  to  be  an  Archimedean  lever.  I  find  myself  a  great 
deal  happier  since  I  have  set  about  discovering  the  rea 
son  of  these  manifestations  of  immature  taste,  instead  of 
lamenting  over  them,  or  cursing  them,  as  I  once  did. 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  77 

ZOILTJS  (ironically).  Then  I  Lave  not  attained  your 
higher  stand-point  ? 

THE  GANNET  (offering  him  the  haf).  Here,  pick  out 
one  of  the  caged  birds,  and  make  him  sing !  The  prelude 
of  chords  and  discords  has  lasted  long  enough ;  let  the 
orchestra  now  fall  into  a  lively  melody. 

ZOILUS.     Ha  !     How  shall  I  manage  Bryant  ? 

GALAHAD.     Or  I,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  ? 

THE  GANNET.     Or  I,  N.  P.  Willis  ? 

GALAHAD.     Let  us  either  exchange,  or  deal  again  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  No  !  As  chairman,  I  declare  such  a 
proposition  out  of  order.  You  must  not  pick  out  those 
authors  with  whose  manner  you  are  most  familiar,  or 
whom  you  could  most  easily  imitate.  That  would  be  no 
fair  and  equal  test ;  and  there  must  be  a  little  emulation, 
to  keep  your  faculties  in  nimble  playing  condition.  I  am 
as  oddly  tasked  as  either  of  you,  —  see,  I  have  drawn 
Tennyson  !  —  yet,  for  the  sake  of  good  example,  I  Jll  work 
with  you  this  time.  Let  us  surrender  ourselves,  like 
spiritual  mediums,  to  the  control  of  the  first  stray  idea 
that  enters  our  brains  :  anything  whatever  will  do  for  a 
point  to  start  from.  I  am  curious  to  know  what  will 
come  of  it. 

ZOILUS.     So  am  I.     Here  goes.     (Writes?) 

THE  GANNET.     We  must  first  have  our  glasses  filled ; 
Galahad,  ring  for  the  waiter ! 
(A  silence  of  ff teen  or  twenty  minutes  follows.     As  the  first 

one  ivho  has  completed  his  task  lifts  his  head  with  a  sigh  of 

relief,  the  others  write  with  a  nervous  haste ;  but  all  wait 

for  the  last  one) 

THE  GANNET.     You  were  ready  first,  Zoilus. 


78  DIVERSION^  OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

ZOILUS.  Then  it  was  not  because  I  had  the  least  diffi 
cult  task.  Perhaps  our  Ancient  can  tell  me  why  it  is  so 
difficult  to  make  an  echo  for  Bryant's  verse.  To  parody 
any  particular  poem,  such  as  "  The  Death  of  the  Elow- 
ers,"  would  be  easy  enough,  I  should  think ;  but  I  was 
obliged  to  write  something  independent  in  Bryant's  man 
ner.  Now,  when  I  asked  myself,  "What  is  his  manner  ?  " 
I  could  only  answer,  "  Gravity  of  subject  and  treatment, 
pure  rhythm,  choice  diction,  and  a  mixture  more  or  less 
strong  of  the  moral  element." 

THE  ANCIENT.  You  have  fairly  stated  his  prominent 
characteristics,  and  your  difficulty  came  from  the  fact  that 
they  are  all  so  evenly  and  exquisitely  blended  in  his  verse, 
that  no  single  one  seems  salient  enough  to  take  hold  of. 
Bryant's  range  of  subjects  is  not  wide,  but  within  that 
range  he  is  a  most  admirable  artist.  He  is  of  the  same 
blood  with  Wordsworth,  —  a  brother,  not  a  follower,  — 
and  oftentimes  seems  cold,  because  his  intellectual  pitch 
is  high.  I  confess  /  find  the  powers  of  control,  temper 
ance,  self-repression,  abnegation  of  sentiment  for  a  pur 
pose  whicli  aims  beyond  it,  in  his  poems,  rather  than  a 
negative  coldness.  His  literary  position,  it  is  true,  is 
very  isolated.  He  has  both  kept  aloof  from  the  tempo 
rary  excitements  in  our  poetic  atmosphere,  and  he  has 
rarely  given  any  direct  expression  of  an  aspiration  for  the 
general  literary  development  of  our  people,  or  of  sym 
pathy  with  those  who  felt  and  fostered  it.  Nevertheless, 
we  cannot  fairly  go  beyond  an  author's  works,  in  our 
judgments  ;  and  I  suspect  we  shall  all  agree,  as  Ameri 
cans,  in  estimating  the  amount  of  our  debt  to  Bryant. 

GALAHAD.     You  have  so  put  down  my  natural  rever- 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     79 

ence  that  I  don't  dare  to  protest.  But  when  I  see 
Bryant  in  Broadway,  with  his  magnificent  Homeric 
beard,  I  wonder  the  people  don't  take  off  their  hats  as 
he  passes.  Why,  seventy  years  ago,  the  stolid  Berliners 
almost  carried  Schiller  on  their  shoulders  as  he  came  out 
of  the  theatre  ;  the  raging  mob  of  '48  did  homage  to 
Humboldt ;  and  every  other  people,  it  seems  to  me,  in 
every  other  civilized  land,  has  rendered  some  sort  of 
honor  to  its  minstrels.  But  I  cannot  recollect  that  we 
have  ever  done  anything. 

THE  GANNET.  Yes,  we  have  done  a  little,  but  not 
much,  —  after  death.  A  few  men  have  given  Halleck  a 
monument,  and  two  men  have  put  up  busts  of  Irving  and 
Bryant  in  our  parks.  There  was  a  public  commemora 
tion  of  Cooper,  at  which  Webster  (who  knew  nothing 
and  cared  nothing  about  our  literature)  officiated  ;  but 
that  was  the  end  of  it.  The  Bryant  Festival  was  almost 
a  private  matter ;  the  public  was  not  represented,  and 
one  author  belonging  to  the  same  club  refused  to  take 
any  part  in  it,  on  account  of  the  political  views  of  the 
poet ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  We  are  forgetting  our  business. 
Zoilus  has  the  floor. 

ZOILUS.  I  told  you  I  had  a  hard  task  ;  therefore  I 
shall  not  be  vexed  if  you  tell  me  I  have  failed. 

THE   DESERTED   BARN. 

Against  the  gray  November  sky, 
Beside  the  weedy  lane,  it  stands  ; 

To  newer  fields  they  all  pass  by, 

The  farmers  and  their  harvest  hands. 


80     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

There  is  no  hay  within  the  mow ; 

The  racks  and  mangers  fall  to  dust ; 
The  roof  is  crumbling  in,  but  thou, 

My  soul,  inspect  it  and  be  just. 

Once  from  the  green  and  winding  vale 
The  sheaves  were  borne  to  deck  its  floor ; 

The  blue-eyed  milkmaid  filled  her  pail, 
Then  gently  closed  the  stable  door. 

Once  on  the  frosty  winter  air 

The  sound  of  flails  afar  was  borne, 

And  from  his  natural  pulpit  there 

The  preacher  cock  called  up  the  morn. 

But  all  are  gone  :  the  harvest  men 
Work  elsewhere  now  for  higher  pay  ; 

The  blue-eyed  milkmaid  married  Ben, 
The  hand,  and  went  to  loway. 

The  flails  are  banished  by  machines, 

Which  thrash  the  grain  with  equine  power ; 

The  senile  cock  no  longer  weans 

The  folk  from  sleep  at  dawning  hour. 

They  slumber  late  beyond  the  hill, 

In  that  new  house  which  spurns  the  old ; 

In  gorgeous  stalls  the  kine  are  still, 
The  horse  is  blanketed  from  cold. 

But  I  from  ostentatious  pride 
And  hollow  pomp  of  riches  turn, 

To  muse  that  ancient  barn  beside  : 
Pause,  pilgrim,  and  its  lesson  learn ; 


DIVE11SIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  81 

So  live,  that  thou  shalt  never  make 
A  mill-pond  of  the  mountain-tarn, 

Nor  for  a  gaudy  stable  take 

The  timbers  of  thy  ruined  barn  ! 

GALAHAD.  I  vow  I  don't  know  whether  that  is  seri 
ous,  or  a  burlesque  imitation ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Then  Zoilus  has  fairly  succeeded. 
The  grave,  autumnal  tone  was  indispensable,  for  it 
stamps  itself  on  the  minds  of  nine  out  of  ten  who  read 
Bryant ;  just  as  we  always  associate  Wordsworth  with 
mountain  walks  and  solitary  musings.  Did  you  ever  see 
Kuntze's  statuette  of  Bryant  ?  He  is  sitting,  and  beside 
him,  on  the  ground,  there  is  only  a  buffalo-skull.  Of 
course,  you  at  once  imagine  a  prairie  mound,  with  noth 
ing  in  sight,  —  which  is  carrying  the  impression  alto 
gether  too  far ;  for  his  poems  on  the  apple-tree  and  the 
bobolink  are  entirely  human. 

GALAHAD  (earnestly).  There  is  much  more  than  that 
in  his  poetry  !  There  is  the  evidence  of  a  high  imagina 
tive  quality,  which,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he  seems  to 
hold  in  check  !  Head  "  The  Land  of  Dreams  "  and  his 
poem  on  "  Earth,"  where  there  is  something  about  the 

"  Hollows  of  the  great  invisible  hills 
Where  darkness  dwells  all  day  —  " 

I  can't  remember  all  the  passage,  but  it  is  exceedingly 
fine  !  Generally,  he  reins  himself  up  so  tightly  that  you 
cannot  feel  the  fretting  of  the  bit ;  but  rarely,  when  he 
lets  himself  go,  for  a  few  lines,  you  get  a  glimpse  of  an 
other  nature. 

4*  F 


82  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Just  therein,  I  think,  lies  his  greatest 
service  to  American  literature.  There  have  always  been, 
and  always  will  be,  enough  of  wild  mustangs,  unbridled 
foals,  who  dash  off  at  a  gallop  and  can't  stop  themselves 
at  the  proper  goal,  but  pant  and  stagger  a  mile  beyond 
it.  With  Bryant's  genius,  he  might  have  undertaken 
much  more ;  but  he  has  hoarded  his  power,  and  how 
freshly  it  serves  him  still ! 

"  No  waning  of  fire,  no  quenching  of  ray, 
But  rising,  still  rising,  then  passing  away." 

Who  wrote  those  lines  ? 

THE  GANNET.  He  who  speaks  through  me  to-night, 
—  Willis.  But  Galahad  comes  next  in  order. 

GALAHAD.  I  have  really  a  better  right  to  complain  of 
the  severity  of  my  task  than  Zoilus.  One  can't  imitate 
humor  without  possessing  it,  —  which  I  'm  not  sure  that 
I  do.  Between  "  Old  Ironsides  "  and  the  "  One-Hoss 
Shay,"  Holmes  has  played  in  a  great  many  keys,  and  I 
was  forced  to  echo  that  one  which  seemed  easiest  to 
follow.  (Reads.) 


THE   PSYCHO-PHYSICAL  MUSE. 

O  Muse,  descend,  or,  stay  !  —  evolve  thy  presence  from  within, 
For  all  conditions  now  combine,  and  so  I  must  begin  : 
The  wind  is  fresh  from  west-nor'west,  the  sky  is  deepest  blue, 
Thermometer  at  seventy,  and  pulse  at  seventy-two. 

At  breakfast  fish-balls  I  consumed  ;  the  phosphates  are  sup 
plied  ! 
The  peccant  acid  in  my  blood  by  Sdters  alkalied  ; 


DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB.  83 

As  far  as  I  can  see  the  works,  my  old  machine  of  thought 
Runs  with  its  cogs  and  pivots  oiled,  as  if  in  Waltham  bought. 

The  main -spring  is  elastic  yet,  the  balance-wheel  is  trim, 
And  if  "  full-jewelled  "  one  should  think,  let  no  man  scoff  at  him ! 
Odi  profanum  vulgus,  —  well  !  the  truth  is  t'  other  way  ; 
But  one  eupeptic  as  myself  can  always  have  his  say. 

Suppose  I  let  the  wheels  ran  on,  till  fancy's  index -hand 
Points  to  a  verse-inspiring  theme  and  there  inclines  to  stand  ? 
Between  the  thought  and  rhythmic  speech  there  often  yawns  a 

chasm ; 
To  bridge  it  o'er  we  only  need  a  vigorous  protoplasm. 

With  an  unconscious  sinciput,  a  cerebellum  free, 

I  don't  see  why  the  loftiest  lays  should  not  be  sung  by  me  : 

The  fitful  flushes  of  the  Muse  my  diagnosis  own : 

I  test  her  symptoms  in  the  air  as  surely  as  ozone. 

There 's  just  one  thing  that  fails  me  yet ;  the  fancies  dart  around 
Like  skittish  swallows  on  the  wing,  but  none  will  touch  the 

ground. 

"With  such  conditions  't  were  a  sin  to  lay  the  pen  aside, 
But,  with  the  mind  close-girt  to  run,  direction  is  denied. 

I  've  waited,  now,  an  hour  or  more  :  I  'd  take  a  glass  of  wine, 
Save  that  I  fear  'twould  send  the  pulse  to  seventy-eight  or  nine; 
'T  is  that  capricious  jade,  the  Muse  !  —  I  know  her  tricks  of 

old: 
Just  when  my  house  is  warm  for  her,  she  will  prefer  the  cold ! 

THE  GANNET.  All,  you  5ve  only  caught  some  general 
characteristics,  not  the  glitter  and  flash  of  Holmes's 
lines !  His  humor  is  like  a  Toledo  blade ;  it  may  be 
sheathed  in  a  circular  scabbard,  but  it  always  springs  out 


84  DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

straight  and  keen,  and  fit  for  a  direct  lunge.  He  is  tlie 
only  poet  in  the  county  who  can  write  good  "occa- 
sionals,"  without  losing  faith  in  the  finer  inspiration,  or 
ceasing  to  obey  it. 

GALAHAD.  You  very  well  know  we  have  no  time  for 
selection.  I  have  been  reading  lately  his  "Mechanism 
in  Thought  and  Morals,"  so  that  my  imitation  was  really 
suggested  by  his  prose. 

THE  ANCIENT.  That  is  permitted.  Tor  my  part, 
though  I  like  Holmes's  songs  in  all  keys,  I  have  always 
wished  that  he  had  written  more  such  poems  as  "La 
Grisette,"  wherein  we  have,  first  of  all,  ease  and  grace, 
then  just  enough  of  sentiment,  of  humor,  and  of  a  light, 
sportive  fancy  to  make  a  mixture  wholly  delightful,  —  a 
beverage  that  cheers,  but  not  inebriates,  in  which  there  is 
neither  headache  nor  morbid  tears.  Hood  had  the  same 
quality,  though  he  does  n't  often  reveal  it ;  so  had  Praed ; 
so,  I  feel  sure,  had  Willis,  but  in  his  case  it  was  a  neg 
lected  talent.  When  I  say  that  we  most  sorely  need  this 
naive,  playful  element  in  our  literature,  you  may  not 
agree  with  me ;  but,  0,  how  tired  I  am  of  hearing  that 
every  poem  should  "convey  a  lesson,"  should  "inculcate 
a  truth,"  should  "  appeal  to  the  moral  sense."  Why, 
half  our  self-elected  critics  seem  to  be  blind  to  the  purely 
aesthetic  character  of  our  art !  No  man  —  not  even  the 
greatest  — can  breathe  a  particular  atmosphere  all  his 
life,  without  taking  some  of  its  ingredients  into  his 
blood  ;  and  just  those  which  seem  best  may  be  most  fatal 
to  the  imaginative  faculty.  I  suspect  there  has  been 
more  of  battle  in  the  intellectual  life  of  Holmes  than  any 
of  us  knows. 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  85 

ZOILUS.     Now  let  us  hear  the  Gannet. 

THE  GANNET.  If  it  had  been  a  leader  for  the  "  Home 
Journal,"  I  should  have  found  the  task  light  enough  ;  hut 
Willis's  poetic  style  is  —  as  he  would  have  said  —  rather 
un-come-at-able.  (Reads.) 


KEREN-HAPPUCH. 

The  comforters  of  Job  had  come  and  gone. 
They  were  anhungered  ;  for  the  eventide 
Sank  over  Babylon,  and  smokes  arose 
From  pottage  cooked  in  palace  and  in  tent. 
Then  Keren -happuch,  from  her  lordly  bower 
Of  gem-like  jasper,  and  the  porphyry  floors 
Swept  by  the  satins  of  her  trailing  robe, 
Came  forth,  and  sat  beside  her  father  Job, 
And  gave  him  comfort,  mid  his  painful  boils, 
And  scraped  him  with  a  potsherd  ;  and  her  soul 
Rebelled  at  his  unlovely  misery, 
And  from  her  lips,  that  parted  like  a  cleft 
Of  ripe  pomegranates  o'er  their  ruby  teeth, 
Broke  forth  a  wail : 

f c  Alas  for  thee,  my  sire ! 
And  for  the  men  and  maidens  of  thy  train, 
And  for  thy  countless  camels  on  the  plain, 

More  than  thou  didst  require  ; 
Thou  mightst  have  sold  them  at  the  morning  dawn 
For  heavy  gold  :  at  even  they  were  gone  ! 

"  And  they  who  dressed  my  hair 
"With  agate  braids  and  pearls  from  Samarcand 


A  / 

OF  THB 


86     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

Have  died ;  there  is  no  handmaid  in  the  land, 

To  make  my  visage  fair : 
Unpainted  and  unpowdered,  lo  !   I  come, 
Gray  with  the  ashes  of  my  gorgeous  home  ! 

"  Yea,  thou  and  I  are  lone  : 
The  prince  who  wooed  me  fled  in  haste  away 
From  thine  infection  :  hungered  here  I  stray, 

And  find  not  any  bone  ; 

For  famished  cats  have  ravaged  shelf  and  plate  : 
The  larder,  like  my  heart,  is  desolate ! 

"  And  it  is  very  drear, 

My  sire,- whose  wealth  and  beauty  were  my  pride, 
To  see  thee  so  disfigured  at  my  side, 

Nor  leech  nor  poultice  near, 
To  save  thy  regal  skin  from  later  scars  : 
Yea,  thou  art  loathsome  by  the  light  of  stars  ! 

"  Go,  hie  thee  to  thy  room, 
And  I  will  gather  marjoram  and  nard, 
And  mix  their  fragrance  with  the  cooling  lard, 

And  thus  avert  thy  doom. 
A  daughter's  sacrifice  no  tongue  can  tell : 
The  prince  will  not  return  till  thou  art  well !  " 

GALAHAD.  Now  I  must  say,  although  I  have  enjoyed 
the  travesty  with  you,  that  this  gives  me  a  parig.  I  can't 
forget  Willis's  sunny,  kindly,  and  sympathetic  nature, 
and  the  dreary  clouding  of  his  mind  at  the  last.  There 
was  something  very  tragic  in  the  way  in  which  he  clung 
to  the  fragments  that  remained,  as  one  faculty  after 
another  failed  him,  and  strove  to  be  still  the  cheerful, 
sparkling  author  of  old.  I  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy 


DIVERSIONS    OF.  THE    ECH6    CLUB.  87 

when  I  first  went  to  him,  a  few  years  ago,  and  no  brother 
could  have  been  kinder  to  me. 

THE  ANCIENT.  There  never  was  a  poet  more  free 
from  jealousy  or  petty  rivalry,  none  more  ready  to  help 
or  encourage.  As  an  author,  he  was  damaged  by  too 
early  popularity,  and  he  made  the  mistake  of  trying  to 
retain  it  through  exaggerating  the  features  of  his  style 
which  made  him  popular ;  but  neither  homage  nor  defa 
mation  —  and  he  received  both  in  full  measure  —  ever 
affected  the  man's  heart  in  his  breast.  There  was  often 
an  affectation  of  aristocratic  elegance  in  his  writings ;  yet, 
in  his  life,  he  was  as  natural  a  democrat  as  Walt  Whitman, 
gentle,  considerate,  and  familiar  with  the  lowest  whom  he 
met,  and  only  haughty  towards  ignorant  or  vulgar  preten 
sion.  Poe  said  that  he  narrowly  missed  placing  himself 
at  the  head  of  American  literature,  which  was  true  of  his 
career  from  1830  to  about  1845.  By  the  by,  I  wish  some 
one  would  undertake  to  write  our  literary  history,  begin 
ning,  say,  about  1800. 

ZOILUS.  Set  about  it  yourself!  But,  come,  we  are 
not  to  be  cheated  "out  of  your  contribution  to-night; 
where  is  your  Tennyson  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  have  added  another  to  his  brief 
modern  idyls.  (Reads.) 

EUSTACE  GREEN; 
OR,   THE  MEDICINE-BOTTLE. 

Here  's  the  right  place  for  lunch ;  and  if,  ah  me  ! 
The  hollies  prick,  and  burr-weed  grows  too  near, 
We  '11  air  our  eyesight  o'er  the  swelling  downs,  • 


88     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

And  so  not  mind  them.     While  the  Medoc  chills 
In  ice,  and  yon  champagne -flask  in  the  sun 
Takes  mellower  warmth,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  did 
To  Eustace  Green  —  last  Cambridge-term  it  was, 
Just  when  the  snowball  by  the  farmer's  gate 
Made  jokes  of  winter  at  the  garden  rose. 

No  marvel  of  much  wisdom  Eustace  was,  — 

You  know  him,  Hal,  —  no  high-browed  intellect, 

Such  as  with  easy  grab  the  wrangler's  place 

Plucks  from  the  clutching  hands  of  college  youth, 

But  home-bred,  as  it  were  ;  and  all  the  stock, 

His  stalwart  dad,  and  mother  Marigold 

(We  called  her),  Kate,  Cornelia,  Joseph,  Jane, 

A  country  posy  of  great  boys  and  girls. 

But  she,  the  mother,  when  the  brown  ash  took 

A  livelier  green  beside  the  meadow-stile, 

And  celandines,  the  milky  kine  of  flowers, 

Were  yellow  in  the  lanes,  hung  o'er  the  fire 

A  caldron  huge  —  oh  me,  it  was  a  sight 

To  see  her  stir  the  many  herbs  therein  ! 

Of  yarrow,  tansy,  thyme,  and  camomile  — 

What  know  I  all  ?  —  she  boiled  and  slowly  brewed 

The  strange  concoction  :  't  was  an  heirloom  old, 

The  recipe,  a  sovran  cure,  and  famed 

From  Hants  to  Yorkshire  :  this  must  Eustace  take. 

Not  that  the  lubber  lad  was  ill  —  O,  no  ! 

You  did  but  need  to  punch  him  in  the  ribs, 

To  feel  how  muscle  overlaid  the  bone  ; 

And  as  for  trencher-practice,  —  trust  me,  Hal, 

A  donkey -load  of  lunch  were  none  too  much, 

Were  he  here  with  us.     W7here  was  I  ?  —  Ah,  yes, 

The  medicine !     She  gave  it  me  with  words 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     89 

Many,  and  thrice  repeated  ;  he  should  take, 
Eustace,  the  dose  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  night, 
For  these  were  feverous  times  :  she  did  not  know, 
Not  she,  what  airs  blew  o'er  the  meads  of  Cam  : 
Preventive  ounces  weighed  a  pound  of  cure. 
At  last,  I  thrust  the  bottle  in  my  sack, 
And  left  her. 

Now,  returning  Cambridge- wards, 
Some  devil  tickled  me  to  turn  the  thing 
To  joke,  or  was  it  humors  in  the  blood, 
Stirring,  perchance,  when,  oysters  out  of  date 
And  game  prohibited,  the  stomach  pines  ? 
Think  as  you  will ;  but  to  myself  my  mind 
Thus  reasoned :  need  to  him  of  medicine 
Is  none  :  the  green  cicala  in  the  grass 
Chirps  not  more  wholesome  :  wherefore  swiftly  I 
Will  cats  this  useless  brewage  to  the  winds, 
Yea,  to  the  thistled  downs  ;  and  substitute  — 
Haply  some  ancient  hostel  glimmering  near — - 
Laborious  Boreal  brandy,  equal  bulk. 
And  this,  the  thing  accomplished,  then  did  I 
Proffer  to  Eustace  Green,  all  eager  he 
For  news  of  home  and  mother  Marigold, 
His  dad  and  Kate,  Cornelia,  Joseph,  Jane, 
And  Bloss,  the  ox,  and  Bounce,  the  plough-horse  old, 
One-eyed,  and  spavined.     But  the  medicine 
He  took  with  :  "  Pshaw  !  that  beastly  stuff  again  ? 
Am  I  a  rat  that  she  should  send  the  dose  ?  " 
Then  I :   "  Dear  Eustace,  times  are  feverous  : 
Malarial  breezes  blow  across  the  Cam : 
Preventive  ounces  weigh  a  pound  of  cure." 
"  O,  damn  your  ounces  !  "  he  profanely  cried ; 
"  But  if  I  must,  I  must ;  so  summon  Giles, 


90     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

The  undertaker,  when  I  take  this  close, 

And  gently  coffin  me  when  now  I  die." 

So  drank ;  and  then,  with  great  eyes  all  astare, 

Cried  :  "  Taste  it,  you  !     Fourth-proof,  O.  P.  and  S.  T.  X.  !  — 

We  '11  have  a  punch !  "     And  that  teetotal  dame, 

His  mother,  did  we  pledge  in  steaming  punch, 

She  knowing  not ;  and  tears  of  laughter  ran 

Down  both  our  cheeks,  and  trickled  in  the  bowl, 

Weakening  the  punch. 

But  now  the  Medoc  's  chill, 

And  warm  the  sweet  champagne  ;  so,  while  the  copse 
Clangs  round  us  like  the  clang  of  many  shields, 
Down  the  long  hollows  to  the  dusky  sea, 
Let  us,  with  sandwich  and  the  hard-boiled  egg, 
Enjoy  both  nature's  beauty  and  our  own ! 

OMNES.    Well  done ! 

ZOILUS.  Why,  you  have  caught  the  very  trick  of 
Tennyson's  blank-verse !  If  you  had  only  warmed  the 
Medoc  and  chilled  the  champagne,  I  should  hardly  know 
the  difference.  But  how  did  you  ever  happen  to  invent 
a  motive,  or  plot,  all  complete,  on  the  spur  of  the  mo 
ment  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Ah,  you  force  me  to  confess :  I  did  n't 
invent  it.  It  was  a  trick  I  played  myself,  on  a  friend,  in 
our  young  days ;  and,  by  good  luck,  it  came  to  my  mem 
ory  just  at  the  right  time.  Therefore,  having  the  subject, 
the  imitation  of  Tennyson's  manner  was  easy  enough. 
I  'm  glad,  however,  that  you  think  it  successful ;  for  it 
justifies  me  in  holding  fast  to  the  principle  we  accepted, 
and  which  I  was  obliged  to  enforce  to-night.  You  know 
that  my  own  scattering  poems  are  quite  unlike  —  how- 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     91 

ever  long  the  interval  between  —  anything  of  Tennyson's ; 
but  I  have  inade  it  a  point,  for  years  past,  to  study  the 
individual  characteristics  of  the  poets,  and  this  proves 
how  easily  those  which  are  superficial  and  obvious  may 
be  copied. 

ZOILUS.     May  I  ask  what  your  private  estimate  of 
Tennyson,  as  a  poet,  is  r 

THE  ANCIENT.  Of  course  !  While  I  might,  possibly, 
agree  with  his  keenest  critics  in  regard  to  many  details  . 
of  style  or  expression,  especially  in  his  earlier  poems,  I 
yield  to  no  one  in  the  profoundest  respect  for  his  noble 
loyalty  to  his  art.  Tennyson  is  a  poet,  who,  recognizing 
the  exact  quality  of  his  gift,  has  given  all  the  forces  of  his 
mind,  all  the  energies  of  his  life,  to  perfect  it.  I  can  see 
that  he  has  allowed  no  form  of  knowledge,  which  this  age 
has  developed,  to  arise  without  assimilating,  at  least,  its 
substance ;  but  all  is  employed  in  the  sole  service  of  his 
poetic  art.  He  began  with  something  of  the  rank,  "  lush  " 
luxuriance  of  style  which  Keats  was  just  leaving  behind 
him  when  he  died  :  he  now  rises,  often  to  a  majestic  sim 
plicity  and  dignity  which  nearly  remind  me  of  Milton. 
Not  that  the  two  are  similar,  in  any  particular;  but  Ten 
nyson,  like  scarcely  any  other  except  Schiller,  has  achieved 
high  success  as  a  poet  by  comprehending  clearly  both 
his  powers  and  their  limitations.  How  easily,  by  mis 
taking  his  true  work,  he  might  have  scattered  his  rays, 
instead  of  gathering  them  into  a  clear  focus  of  light ! 
All  honor  to  him,  I  say,  in  this  age,  when  so  many  writ 
ers  degrade  their  gift  by  making  it  subservient  to  worldly 
ends ! 

GALAUAD  (with  enthusiasm).     You  make  me  happy  ! 


92  DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

THE  GANNET.    I  should  say,  nevertheless,  that  he  was 
well  paid  in  ringing  guineas.     Eor  instance  — 

ZOILUS.    "  The  continuation  in  next  week's  New  York 
Ledger  !  "     Do  you  know  that  it  is  one  o'clock  ? 

OMNES  (starting  up).     We  go — but  we  return  ! 

[Exeunt. 


NIGHT   THE  FIFTH. 


LL  were  on  hand  at  the  usual  hour,  fresh  and 
eager  for  a  continuation  of  the  performances. 
The '  Gannet,  addressing  Zo'ilus,  opened  the 
conversation  :  — 

"I  can  guess  one  thing  you  have  been  thinking  of 
since  we  met,  —  of  Tennyson's  place  in  literature  ?  " 

ZOILUS.  You  have  just  hit  it !  I  did  n't  fully  agree 
with  the  Ancient,  but  there  was  no  time  left  for  discus 
sion.  There  must  be  some  good  reason  for  Tennyson's 
influence  on  the  poetry  of  our  day ;  yet,  if  his  is  a  gen 
uine  flower,  it  could  n't  be  made  a  weed  by  being  sown 
everywhere.  There  is  no  doubt  of  the  individuality  of 
his  manner,  but  I  am  not  yet  ready  to  say  that  it  is  pure, 
as  Collins's,  or  Gray's,  for  instance,  or  even  Words 
worth's.  He  is  sometimes  like  a  perfume  which  cloys 
the  sense  from  over-richness.  Now,  a  very  slight  change 
in  the  odor  of  the  tuberose  might  make  it  unpleasant ; 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  some  of  Tennyson's  younger  fol 
lowers  have  made  just  such  a  change. 

GALAHAD.  Almost  the  same  thought  occurred  to  me 
the  other  day.  I  was  trying  to  recall  some  lines  of  the 
Ancient's  imitation,  and  then  went  over  in  my  mind  the 


94     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

numbers  of  blank -verse  idyls  more  or  less  in  Tennyson's 
manner,  which  have  been  written  by  others.  He  drew 
from  a  very  far  source,  as  I  think  Stedman  has  clearly 
shown  in  his  paper  on  "  Theocritus  and  Tennyson  " ;  but 
they,  drawing  from  him,  cannot  conceal  theirs.  I  never 
before  felt  so  keenly  the  difference  between  the  poetry 
which  rises  out  of  a  man's  own  nature  and  that  which  is 
impressed  upon  it,  or  communicated,  like  an  infection,  by 
another  mind.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  try  my  hand 
alone,  on  an  imitation  of  this  idyllic  school,  which  I  now 
see  is  itself  an  echo. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Read  it  to  us,  then  !  *Who  was  your 
immediate  model  ? 

GALAHAD  (taking  a  paper  from  hi*  pockety.  Why,  no 
one  in  particular.  Now,  that  I  look  over  the  lines,  I  see 
that  I  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  echoes  of  the 
"  Princess,"  rather  than  of  those  of  the  short  idyls  of 
modern  life.  It  is  the  craziest  burlesque  of  the  mediaeval 
themes,  revived  in  that  form :  it  is  absurd,  and  nothing 
else. 

ZOILUS.     That  will  do  very  well,  for  variety. 

GALAHAD.  Then,  as  Eustace  Green  says,  if  I  must,  I 
must.  (Reads.) 

SIR  EGGNOGG. 

Forth  from  the  purple  battlements  he  fared, 
Sir  Eggnogg  of  the  Rampant  Lily,  named 
From  that  embrasure  of  his  argent  shield 
Given  by  a  thousand  leagues  of  heraldry 
On  snuffy  parchments  drawn,  —  so  forth  he  fared, 
By  bosky  boles  and  autumn  leaves  he  fared, 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB.  95 

"Where  grew  the  juniper  with  berries  black, 

The  sphery  mansions  of  the  future  gin. 

But  naught  of  this  decoyed  his  mind,  so  bent 

On  fair  Miasma,  Saxon-blooded  girl, 

Who  laughed  his  loving  lullabies  to  scorn, 

And  would  have  snatched  his  hero-sword  to  deck 

Her  haughty  brow,  or  warm  her  hands  withal, 

So  scornful  she :  and  thence  Sir  Eggnogg  cursed 

Between  his  teeth,  and  chewed  his  iron  boots 

In  spleen  of  love.     But  ere  the  morn  was  high 

In  the  robustious  heaven,  the  postern-tower 

Clang  to  the  harsh,  discordant,  slivering  scream 

Of  the  tire-woman,  at  the  window  bent 

To  dress  her  crisped  hair.     She  saw,  ah  woe ! 

The  fair  Miasma,  overbalanced,  hurled 

O'er  the  flamboyant  parapet  which  ridged 

The  muffled  coping  of  the  castle's  peak, 

Prone  on  the  ivory  pavement  of  the  court, 

Which  caught  and  cleft  her  fairest  skull,  and  sent 

Her  rosy  brains  to  fleck  the  Orient  floor. 

This  saw  Sir  Eggnogg,  in  his  stirrups  poised, 

Saw  he  and  cursed,  with  many  a  deep-mouthed  oath, 

And,  finding  nothing  more  could  reunite 

The  splintered  form  of  fair  Miasma,  rode 

On  his  careering  palfrey  to  the  wars, 

And  there  found  death,  another  death  than  hers. 

ZOILUS.  After  this,  write  another  such  idyl  yourself, 
if  you  dare  ! 

GALAHAD.  I  never  shall ;  but  when  you  have  done 
the  thing  ignorantly,  and  a  magazine  wants  it  on  account 
of  the  temporary  popularity  of  the  theme  and  manner,  is 
an  author  much  to  blame  for  publishing  ? 


96     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

THE  GANNET.  Let  your  conscience  rest,  Galahad ! 
"Hunger  and  request  of  friends"  were  always  valid 
pleas.  If  a  poet  invariably  asked  himself,  "  Is  this  origi 
nal  ?  Is  it  something  that  must  be  written  ?  Is  it  likelv 
to  be  immortal  ?  "  I  suspect  our  stock  of  verse  would 
soon  be  very  short.  At  least,  only  the  Cliiverses  and 
Tappers  and would  still  be  fruitful. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Did  you  ever  guess  at  the  probable 
permanence  of  the  things  which  seem  best  when  they 
appear  ?  It  is  a  wholesome  experiment.  Macaulay  first 
suggested  it  to  me,  in  speaking  of  the  three  per  cent  of 
Southey  which  might  survive :  since  then,  I  have  found 
that  the  Middle  Ages  are  an  immense  graveyard  of 
poems,  but  nothing  to  what  this  century  will  be.  I  doubt 
whether  many  authors  would  write,  in  the  mere  hope  of 
posthumous  fame. 

THE  GANNET.  /  would  n't !  My  idea  of  literature  is, 
the  possession  of  a  power  which  you  can  wield  to  some 
purpose  while  you  live.  It  may  also  be  wealth,  another 
power ;  it  may  be  yoked  with  politics,  which  is  better 
still ;  it  may  — 

GALAHAD  (interrupting}.  Stop  !  don't  make  me  feel 
that  your  gift,  which  I  have  believed  in,  is  so  entirely 
selfish ! 

ZOILUS  (shaking  the  hat}.  Here  would  soon  be  a 
precious  row  between  you  two ;  draw  your  names  and 
go  to  work  ! 

THE  GANNET.    What  ?    Henry  T.  Tuckerman  ? 

ZOILUS.     To  be  sure  !     I  have  —  Longfellow ! 

GALAHAD.     Mine  is  William  D.  Howells. 

THE  ANCIENT.     I  have  drawn  Richard  Henry  Stod- 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.     97 

dard.  Now,  no  changing,  remember !  We  are  better 
suited  than  the  last  time,  unless  it  be  Zo'ilus,  of  whom  I 
have  my  doubts.  All  imitations  cannot  be  equally  for 
tunate,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  any  of  us  would  succeed 
better,  if  he  should  take  his  own  time  and  pains  for  the 
task,  instead  of  trusting  to  the  first  random  suggestion. 

ZOILUS.  Then,  why  are  you  doubtful  about  me  ?  I 
have  my  random  suggestion  already. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Work  it  out !  I  think  you  under 
stand  my  doubt,  nevertheless.  The  Gannet  is  chuckling 
to  himself,  as  if  he  were  on  the  track  of  something 
wicked  :  I  foresee  that  I  must  use  my  authority  to-night, 
if  I  have  any  left.  (Writes.) 

THE  CHORUS  (whispering  together).  They  are  very 
evenly  matched.  Could  any  inference  be  drawn  from  the 
manner  of  each,  as  he  writes  ?  The  Gannet  has  the  most 
sarcastic  air,  Zo'ilus  is  evidently  satisfied  with  his  per 
formance,  Galahad  seems  earnest  and  a  little  perplexed, 
and  the  Ancient  is  cool  and  business-like.  They  have  all 
learned  something  by  practice;  they  work  much  more 
rapidly  than  at  first. 

THE  GANNET  (after  all  have  finished).  When  you  try 
to  grasp  anything  smooth,  your  hand  slips.  In  Tucker- 
man  there  is  only  proper  smoothness  which  can  be  trav 
estied,  and  you  know  how  difficult  that  is.  (Reads.) 

ODE   TO   PROPRIETY. 

Thou  calm,  complacent  goddess  of  the  mind, 
Look  on  me  from  thine  undisturbed  domain ; 

Thy  well-adjusted  leaflets  let  me  bind, 

As  once  on  youthful,  now  on  manly  brain. 
5  G 


98  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

Upon  thy  head  there  is  no  hair  awry  ; 

Thy  careful  drapery  falleth  as  it  should : 
Thy  face  is  grave  ;  thy  scrutinizing  eye 

Sees  only  that  which  hath  been  stamped  as  good. 

Thou  art  no  patron  of  the  strenuous  thought 
That  speaks  at  will,  regardless  of  old  rule ; 

To  thee  no  neologic  lays  are  brought, 
But  models  of  the  strictly  classic  school. 

Thou  teachest  me  the  proper  way  and  sure  ; 

To  no  imaginative  heights  misled, 
My  verse  moves  onward  with  a  step  secure, 

Nor  hastes  with  rapture,  nor  delays  with  dread. 

I  do  not  need  to  woo  the  fickle  Muse, 
But  am  her  master,  justified  by  thec  : 

All  measures  must  obey  me  as  I  choose, 
So  long  as  they  are  thine,  Propriety  ! 

For  genius  is  a  fever  of  the  blood, 

And  lyric  rage  a  strange,  disturbing  spell : 

Let  fools  attempt  the  torrent  and  the  flood, 
Beside  the  pensive,  placid  pond  I  dwell ! 

ZOILUS.  You  have  too  much  alliteration  in  the  last 
line :  that  is  not  at  all  proper. 

THE  GANNET.  Then  it  shows  the  impossibility  of  re 
producing  the  tone  of  Pope  and  Gray  in  our  day.  I  do 
not  know  that  Tuckerman  attempts  this  in  his  verse ;  but 
I  suspect  that  his  prose  model  is  still  Addison. 

ZOILUS.  That  is  really  getting  to  be  a  sign  of  origi 
nality  !  Mix  Addison  and  Imagination  together,  and 
sublimate  in  a  Erench  retort,  and  wliere  could  you  have 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.  99 

a  finer  modern  style  ?  Tuckerman  lias  all  tradition  on 
his  side ;  he  represents  a  conservative  element  in  litera 
ture,  which  —  though  I  don't  admire  it  much  —  I  think 
necessary,  to  keep  the  wild  modern  schools  in  order. 

GALAHAD.  It  is  something  new,  to  hear  you  take  this 
side. 

ZOILUS.  You  must  not  always  credit  me  with  being 
wholly  in  earnest.  I  think  I  am  a  natural  iconoclast ; 
but  one  might  as  well  assail  respectability  in  society  as 
the  "classic"  spirit  in  literature.  It  is  impervious  to  all 
our  shots ;  every  blow  slides  off  its  cold  polish.  But, 
candidly,  there  are  times  when  it  seems  to  refresh  me,  or, 
at  least,  to  give  me  a  new  relish  for  something  warmer 
and  more  pungent. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  believe  you,  fully.  We  should  all 
fare  badly,  were  it  not  for  the  colder  works  which  we 
hear  so  often  depreciated.  They  make  a  fire-proof  temple 
in  which  we  may  build  fires  at  will.  Now,  let  us  hear 
how  you  have  treated  an  author  who  is  already  a  classic, 
though  without  the  cold  polish  of  which  you  speak.  Very 
few  poets  have  been  complimented  by  so  many  ordinary 
parodies. 

ZOILUS.  I  am  aware  of  that,  and  I  have  tried  to  get 
as  far  away  as  possible  from  the  risk  of  resembling  them. 
(Reads.) 

NAUVOO. 

This  is  the  place  :  be  still  for  a  while,  my  high-pressure  steam 
boat ! 

Let  me  survey  the  spot  where  the  Mormons  builded  their  temple. 
Much  have  1  mused  on  the  wreck  and  ruin  of  ancient  religions, 


100          DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO    CLUB. 

Scandinavian,  Greek,  Assyrian,  Zend,  and  the  Sanskrit, 
Yea,  and  explored  the  mysteries  hidden  in  Talmudic  targums, 
Caught  the  gleam  of  Chrysaor's  sword  and  occulted  Orion, 
Backward  spelled  the  lines  of  the  Hebrew  graveyard  at  Newport, 
Studied  Ojibwa  symbols  and  those  of  the  Quarry  of  Pipe-stone, 
Also  the  myths  of  the  Zulus  whose  questions  converted  Coleuso, 
So,  methinks,  it  were  well  I  should  muse  a  little  at  Nauvoo. 

Fair  was  he  not,  the  primitive  Prophet,  nor  he  who  succeeded, 
Hardly  for  poetry  tit,  though  using  the  Urim  and  Thummim. 
Had  he  but  borrowed  Levitical  trappings,  the  girdle  and  ephod, 
Fine-twined  linen,  and  ouches  of  gold,  and  bells  and  pomegran 
ates, 

That,  indeed,  might  have  kindled  the  weird  necromancy  of  fancy. 
Had  he  but  set  up  mystical  forms,  like  Astarte  or  Peor, 
Balder,  or  Freya,  Quetzalcoatl,  Perun,  Manabozho, 
Verily,  though  to  the  sense  theologic  it  might  be  offensive, 
Great  were  the  gain  to  the  pictured,  flashing  speech  of  the  poet. 
Yet  the  Muse  that  delights  in  Mesopotamia!!  numbers, 
Vague  and  vast  as  the  roar  of  the  wind  in  a  forest  of  pine-trees, 
Now  must  tune  her  strings  to  the  names  of  Joseph  and  Brigham. 
Hebrew,  the  first ;  and  a  Smith  before  the  Deluge  was  Tubal, 
Thor  of  the  East,  who  first  made  iron  ring  to  the  hammer ; 
So  on  the  iron  heads  of  the  people  about  him,  the  latter, 
Striking  the  sparks  of  belief  and  forging  their  faith  in  the  Good 

Time 

Coming,  the  Latter  Day,  as  he  called  it,  —  the  Kingdom  of  Zion. 
Then,  in  the  words  of  Philip  the  Eunuch  unto  Belshazzar, 
Came  to  him  multitudes  wan,  diseased  and  decrepit  of  spirit, 
Came  and  heard  and  believed,  and  builded  the  temple  at  Nauvoo. 

All  is  past ;  for  Joseph  was  smitten  with  lead  from  a  pistol, 
Brigham  went  with  the  others  over  the  prairies  to  Salt  Lake. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    101 

Answers  now  to  the  long,  disconsolate  wail  of  the  steamer, 
Hoarse,  inarticulate,  shrill,  the  rolling  and  bounding  of  ten 
pins, — 
Answers  the  voice  of  the  bar-tender,  mixing  the  smash  and  the 

julep, 

Answers,  precocious,  the  boy,  and  bites  a  chew  of  tobacco. 
Lone  as  the  towers  of  Afrasiab  now  is  the  seat  of  the  Prophet, 
Mournful,  inspiring  to  verse,  though  seeming  utterly  vulgar : 
Also  —  for  each  thing  now  is  expected  to  furnish  a  moral  — 
Teaching  innumerable  lessons  for  whoso  believes  and  is  patient. 
Thou,  that  readest,  be  resolute,  learn  to  be  strong  and  to  suffer ! 
Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  and  act  in  the  Present ! 
Bear  a  banner  of  strange  devices,  "  Forever  "  and  "  Never  "  ! 
Build  in  the  walls  of  time  the  fane  of  a  permanent  Nauvoo, 
So  that  thy  brethren  may  see  it  and  say,  "  Go  thou  and  do  like 
wise  !  " 

GALAHAD.     Zo'ilus,  you  are  incorrigible. 

ZOILUS  (laughing}.  Just  what  I  expected  you  to  say  \ 
But  it 's  no  easy  thing  to  be  funny  in  hexameters :  the 
Sapphic  verse  is  much  more  practicable.  I  heaped  to 
gether  everything  I  could  remember,  to  increase  my 
chances.  In  some  of  Longfellow's  earlier  poems  the 
theme  and  moral  are  like  two  sides  of  a  medal;  but  I 
could  n't  well  copy  that  peculiarity. 

THE  GANNET.  You  will  only  find  it  in  "  The  Beleag 
uered  City  "  and  "  Seaweed."  Longfellow  is  too  genuine 
an  artist  to  fall  into  that  or  any  other  "peculiarity." 
Just  his  best,  his  most  purely  imaginative  poems  are  those 
which  have  not  been  popular,  because  the  reader  must  he 
half  a  poet  to  appreciate  them.  What  do  you  consider 
his  best  work  ? 


10£          DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

ZOILTJS.     "  Evangeline,"  of  course. 

THE  GANNET.  No,  it  is  the  "  Golden  Legend " ! 
Tliat  is  the  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  the  feeling  of 
all  ages,  set  to  modern  melodies.  I  think  I  could  write 
an  imitation  of  Longfellow's  higher  strains  —  not  of  those 
which  are  so  well  known  and  so  much  quoted  —  which 
would  be  fairer  than  yours. 

ZOILUS.  Do  it,  and  good  luck  to  you.  (TiiE  GANNET 
writes.) 

THE  ANCIENT.  Not  one  of  our  poets  has  deserved 
better  of  his  countrymen  than  Longfellow:  lie  has  ad 
vanced  the  front  rank  of  our  culture.  His  popularity 
has  naturally  brought  envy  and  disparagement  upon  him  ; 
but  it  has  carried  far  and  wide  among  the  people  the  in 
fluence  of  his  purity,  his  refinement,  and  his  constant  ref 
erence  to  an  ideal  of  life  which  so  many  might  otherwise 
forget.  As  a  nation,  we  are  still  full  of  crudity  and  con 
fusion,  and  his  influence,  so  sweet  and  clear  and  steady, 
has  been,  and  is,  more  than  a  merely  poetic  leaven. 

GALAHAD.  I  have  felt  that,  without  ever  thinking  of 
putting  it  into  words.  The  sweetness  of  Longfellow's 
verse  is  its  most  necessary  quality,  when  we  consider  his 
literary  career  in  this  light ;  but  I  never  could  see  how 
exquisite  finish  implies  any  lack  of  power.  What  was 
that  line  of  Goethe  which  you  quoted  to  me  once,  Ancient? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Nur  aus  vollendeter  Kraft  blicket  die 
Anmuth  hervor,  —  only  perfected  Strength  discloses  Grace. 
There  are  singular  ideas  in  regard  to  "power"  afloat  in 
literary  circles.  Why,  the  sunbeam  is  more  powerful 
than  a  thousand  earthquakes  !  I  judge  the  power  of  an 
author  by  the  influence  of  his  works. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    103 

ZOILUS.  Well,  for  my  part,  I  don't  appreciate  "  pow 
er,"  unless  it  strikes  me  square  between  the  eyes.  What 
1  understand  by  "power"  is  something  regardless  of  ele 
gance,  of  the  conventional  ideas  of  refinement,  of  what 
you  call  "  laws  of  art,"  —  something  primitive,  lawless, 
forcing  you,  with  a  strong  hand,  to  recognize  its  existence. 

THE  ANCIENT.     Give  me  a  few  instances  ! 

ZOILUS  (after  a  pause).  Carlyle,  —  Poe,  —  Swinburne, 
—  Emily  Bronte's  "  Wuthering  Heights  "  ! 

GALAHAD.  Why  not  Artemus  Ward  and  Joaquin 
Miller? 

THE  GANNET.  There !  I  never  quite  succeed  when 
I  assume  a  certain  ability.  I  had  in  my  mind,  Zo'ilus,  the 
"  Prometheus  and  Epimetheus,"  the  "  Palingenesis,"  and 
other  poems  in  the  same  key ;  but  it  was  so  difficult  to 
imitate  them  that  I  came  down  one  grade  and  struck  into 
a  style  more  easy  to  be  recognized.  It  may  not  be  better 
than  yours,  but  it  is  not  so  horribly  coarse.  (Reads.) 

THE  SEWING-MACHINE. 

A  strange  vibration  from  the  cottage  window 

My  vagrant  steps  delayed, 
And  half  abstracted,  like  an  ancient  Hindoo, 

I  paused  beneath  the  shade. 

"What  is,  I  said,  this  nnremitted  humming, 

Louder  than  bees  in  spring  ? 
As  unto  prayer  the  murmurous  answer  coining, 

Shed  from  Sandalphon's  wing. 

Is  this  the  sound  of  unimpeded  labor, 
That  now  usurpeth  play  ? 


104    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

Our  harsher  substitute  for  pipe  and  tabor, 
Ghitteru  and  virelay  ? 

Or,  is  it  yearning  for  a  higher  vision, 
By  spiritual  hearing  heard  ? 

Nearer  I  drew,  to  listen  with  preeision, 
Deciphering  uot  a  word. 

Then,  peering  through  the  pane,  as  men  of  sin  do, 

Myself  the  while  unseen, 
1  marked  a  maiden  seated  by  the  window, 

Sewing  with  a  machine. 

Her  gentle  foot  propelled  the  tireless  treadle, 

Her  gentle  hand  the  seam  : 
My  fancy  said,  it  were  a  bliss  to  peddle 

Those  shirts,  as  in  a  dream  ! 

Her  lovely  fingers  lent  to  yoke  and  collar 

Some  imperceptible  taste  ; 
T-he  rural  swain,  who  buys  it  for  a  dollar, 

By  beauty  is  embraced. 

0  fairer  aspect  of  the  common  mission  ! 

Only  the  Poet  sees 
The  true  significance,  the  high  position 

Of  such  small  things  as  these. 

Not  now  doth  Toil,  a  brutal  Boanerges, 

Deform  the  maiden's  hand  ; 
Her  implement  its  soft  sonata  merges 

In  songs  of  sea  and  land. 


DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB.          105 

And  thus  the  hum  of  the  un spooling  cotton, 

Blent  with  her  rhythmic  tread, 
Shall  still  be  heard,  when  virelays  are  forgotten, 

And  troubadours  are  dead. 

ZOILUS.  Ah,  you  could  n't  avoid  the  moral  applica 
tion  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Neither  can  you,  in  imitating  Bryant 
and  Whittier.  In  Longfellow  —  excepting  some  half- 
dozen  of  his  earlier  poems  —  the  moral  element  is  so  skil 
fully  interfused  with  the  imaginative,  that  one  hardly 
suspects  its  presence.  I  should  say,  rather,  that  it  is 
an  inherent  quality  of  his  genius,  and,  therefore,  can 
never  offend  like  an  assumed  purpose.  I  abominate  as 
much  as  you,  Zo'ilus,  possibly  can,  the  deliberate  inten 
tion  to  preach  moral  doctrines  in  poetry.  That  is  turning 
the  glorious  guild  of  authors  into  a  higher  kind  of  Tract 
Society  !  But  the  purer  the  poetic  art,  the  nearer  it 
approaches  the  loftiest  morality;  this  is  a  truth  which 
Longfellow  illustrates.  I  have  always  defended  the  New 
England  spirit  against  your  prejudices,  but  this  I  must 
admit,  that  there  is  a  large  class  of  second-rate  writers 
there  who  insist  that  every  wayward  little  brook,  whose 
murmur  and  sparkle  are  reason  enough  for  its  existence, 
must  be  made  to  turn  some  utilitarian  mill.  Over  and 
over  again,  I  have  seen  how  their  literary  estimate  of  our 
poets  is  gauged  by  the  assumed  relation  of  the  latter  to 
some  variety  of  "  Reform."  The  Abolition  of  Slavery, 
first,  then  Temperance,  and  now  Woman  Suffrage,  or 
Spiritualism,  or  the  Labor  Question,  are  dragged  by  the 
head  and  heels  into  the  temple,  and  sometimes  laid  upon 
the  very  altar,  of  Letters.  The  wonder  is,  that  this 
5* 


106  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

practice  does  n't  retrospectively  affect  their  judgment, 
and  send  Dante  and  Shakespeare  and  Milton  to  their 
chaotic  limbo ! 

ZO'ILUS.  Thanks  for  that  much  support ;  but  let  us 
hear  Galahad ! 

GALAHAD.  Howells,  at  least,  has  escaped  some  of  the 
troubles  through  which  the  older  authors  have  been 
obliged  to  pass.  His  four  years  in  Venice  made  a  for 
tunate  separation  between  his  youthful  period  and  his 
true  sphere  of  activity.  He  did  not  change  front,  as  the 
rest  of  us  must  do,  in  the  press  of  battle.  I  was  very 
much  puzzled  what  to  select,  as  specially  distinctive,  and 
allowed  myself,  at  la*st,  to  be  guided  by  two  or  three 
short  poems.  (Reads) 

PREVARICATION. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  think  I  know  what  you  had  in  your 
mind.  But  I  was  expecting  to  hear  something  in  hex 
ameters  :  you  know  his  —  .  .  .  .  * 

ZOILUS.     Yes,  but  .... 

GALAHAD.  "It  is  true  to  some  extent.  Still,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  .... 

*  Mr.  Howells,  as  Editor  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  in 
sisted  that  he  could  not  properly  allow  his  name  to  appear  among 
the  poets.  I  did  not  agree  with  him  ;  but  I  finally  compromised 
our  difference  by  omitting  the  travesty  and  the  opinions,  and 
adding  foot-notes  apparently  written  by  himself.  The  latter 
were  accepted  as  genuine  and  commented  upon,  to  our  mutual 
amusement.  The  imitation  has  been  lost,  or  I  should  restore 
it  now.  —  B.  T. 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.          107 

ZOILUS.  Well,  after  all,  we  seem  to  agree  tolerably 
well.  All  our  younger  poets  are  tending  towards  greater 
finish  and  elegance.  It  is  about  time  to  expect  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  third  generation,  with  all  the  beauties  and 
faults  of  their  new  youth  about  them.  Why,  we  have 
hardly  any  known  writer  much  less  than  thirty-five  years 
old  !  Our  lights  scarcely  begin  to  burn  until  the  age 
when  Keats's,  Shelley's,  Byron's,  and  Burns's  went  out. 
Is  there  something  in  our  atmosphere  that  hinders  devel 
opment  ?  I  always  supposed  it  possessed  a  greater 
stimulus. 

THE  ANCIENT.  If  you  look  back  a  little,  you  will  find 
that  Bryant,  Willis,  Longfellow,  and  Lowell  were  known 
and  popular  authors  at  twenty-five.  But  I  have  noticed 
the.  lack  of  a  younger  generation  of  poets.  It  is  equally 
true  of  England,  France,  and  Germany ;  none  of  those 
who  have  made  a  strong  impression,  whether  good  or 
bad,  can  be  called  young,  with  the  single  exception  of 
Swinburne.  Rossetti,  though  he  has  appeared  so  re 
cently,  must  be  forty-five  years  old  ;  and  in  Germany  the 
most  popular  poets  —  Geibel,  Bodeustedt,  Hamerling,  and 
lledwitz  —  are  all  in  middle  age.  I  think  a  careful  study 
of  the  literary  history  of  the  last  hundred  years  would 
show  that  we  have  had  both  the  heroes  and  the  epigonoi  ; 
and  now  nature  requires  a  little  rest.  Of  course,  all 
theories  on  the  subject  must  be  merely  fanciful ;  half  a 
dozen  young  fellows  of  the  highest  promise  may  turn  up 
in  a  month  ;  but  I  rather  expect  to  see  a  good  many 
fallow  years. 

GALAHAD.  Then  I,  at  least,  have  fallen  on  evil  times. 
If  I  live  after  our  stars  have  set,  and  no  new  ones  have 
arisen,  it  will  be  — 


108  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

ZOILUS.  Your  great  luck !  Parmi  les  aveugles,  you 
know  ;  but  we  are  forgetting  the  Ancient's  imitation. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Stoddard's  last  volume  shows  both 
variety  and  inequality,  but  the  most  of  it  has  the  true 
ring.  I  was  delighted  with  his  gift  of  poetic  narration, 
in  "  The  Wine-Cup  "  and  "  The  King's  Sentinel  "  ;  yet, 
even  in  them,  there  in  an  undertone  of  sadness.  One  can 
only  make  a  recognizable  echo  of  his  verse,  in  the  minor 
key.  (Reads.) 

THE   CANTELOPE. 

Side  by  side  in  the  crowded  street, 

Amid  its  ebb  and  flow, 
We  walked  together  one  autumn  morn ; 

('T  was  many  years  ago  !) 

The  markets  blushed  with  fruits  and  flowers  ; 

(Both  Memory  and  Hope  !) 
You  stopped  and  bought  me  at  the  stall 

A  spicy  cantelope. 

We  drained  together  its  honeyed  wine, 

We  cast  the  seeds  away  ; 
x  I  slipped  and  fell  on  the  moony  rinds, 

And  you  took  me  home  on  a  dray  ! 

The  honeyed  wine  of  your  love  is  drained  ; 

I  limp  from  the  fall  I  had ; 
The  snow-flakes  muffle  the  empty  stall, 

And  everything  is  sad. 

The  sky  is  an  inkstand,  upside  down, 
It  splashes  the  world  with  gloom  ; 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    109 

The  earth  is  full  of  skeleton  bones, 
And  the  sea  is  a  wobbling  tomb  ! 

ZOILUS.  I  might  have  written  that;  what  do  you 
say,  Galahad  ? 

GALAHAD.  It  is  fully  as  rollicking  as  yours,  hut  not 
quite  so  coarse.  I  always  find  in  Stoddard  a  most  true 
and  delicate  ear  for  the  melody  of  verse,  and  I  thoroughly 
enjoy  his  brief  snatches,  or  "  catches,"  of  song.  When  I 
disagree  with  him,  it  is  usually  on  account  of  the  theme 
rather  than  the  execution.  His  collection  of  "  Melodies 
and  Madrigals  "  gave  me  the  key  to  his  own  taste  and 
talent ;  he  seems  to  have  wandered  down  to  us  from  the 
times  of  Charles  I.  What  has  the  Gaunet  been  writing 
all  this  while  ? 

THE  GANNET.  Something  not  on  our  programme. 
After  trying  my  hand  on  Tuckerman  and  then  on  Long 
fellow,  I  felt  fresh  for  one  task  more  ;  and  we  have  had 
so  few  ladies  introduced  into  our  diversions,  that  I  turned 
to  Mrs.  Stoddard  for  a  new  inspiration.  You  know  how 
I  like  her  poems,  as  the  efforts  of  a  not  purely  rhythmic 
mind  to  express  itself  rhythmically.  They  interest  me 
greatly,  as  every  embodiment  of  struggle  does.  A  com 
monplace,  conventional  intellect  would  never  dare  to  do 
the  things  she  does,  both  in  prose  and  verse ;  she  defies 
the  usual  ways  to  popularity  with  a  most  indomitable 
perseverance. 

GALAHAD.  Is  not  that  the  way  to  reach  it  in  the 
end? 

THE  GANNET.  No  man  knoweth  ;  because  no  one  can 
foresee  how  the  tastes  or  whims  of  the  mercurial  public 
may  turn.  Some  authors  predict  their  own  popularity ; 


110          DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB. 

some  secretly  expect  it,  and  never  get  it ;  and  some, 
again,  leave  works  which  may  seem  dead  and  buried,  but 
are  dug  up  as  if  by  accident,  after  two  or  three  centuries, 
and  become  new  and  delightful  to  a  different  race  of  men. 
Shall  I  read  you  my  imitation  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.    We  wait. 

THE  GANNET.     (Reads.) 


THE   NETTLE. 

If  days  were  nights,  I  could  their  weight  endure. 

This  darkness  cannot  hide  from  me  the  plant 

I  seek :  I  know  it  hy  the  rasping  touch. 

The  moon  is  wrapped  in  homhazine  of  cloud  ; 

The  capes  project  like  crooked  lobster-shears 

Into  the  bobbery  of  the  waves  ;  the  marsh, 

At  ebb,  has  now  a  miserable  smell. 

I  will  not  be  delayed  nor  hustled  back, 

Though  every  wind  should  muss  my  outspread  hair. 

I  snatch  the  plant  that  seems  my  coming  fate  : 

I  pass  the  crinkled  satin  of  the  rose, 

The  violets,  frightened  out  of  all  their  wits, 

And  other  flowers,  to  me  so  commonplace, 

And  cursed  with  showy  mediocrity, 

To  cull  the  foliage  which  repels  and  stings. 

Weak  hands  may  bleed  ;  but  mine  are  tough  with  pride, 

And  I  but  smile  where  others  sob  and  screech. 

The  draggled  flounces  of  the  willows  lash 

My  neck  ;  I  tread  upon  the  bouncing  rake, 

Which  bangs  me  sorely,  but  I  hasten  on, 

With  teeth  firm-set  as  biting  on  a  wire, 

And  feet  and  fingers  clinched  in  bitter  pain. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    Ill 

This,  few  would  comprehend  ;  but,  if  they  did, 
I  should  despise  myself  and  merit  scorn. 
"We  all  are  riddles  which  we  cannot  guess  ; 
Each  has  his  gimcracks  and  his  thingumbobs, 
And  mine  are  night  and  nettles,  mud  and  mist, 
Since  others  hate  them,  cowardly  avoid. 
Things  are  mysterious  when  you  make  them  so, 
And  the  slow-pacing  days  are  mighty  queer; 
But  Fate  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all, 
And  something  somehow  turns  up  in  the  end. 

ZOILUS.  That  is  an  echo  with  a  vengeance  !  But  the 
exaggeration  of  peculiarities  is  the  best  part  of  our  fun ; 
there  you  had  the  advantage.  And  this  proves  what  I 
have  said,  that  the  "  classic  "  style  is  nearly  impregnable. 
How  could  you  exaggerate  it  ?  You  might  as  well  un 
dertake  an  architectural  burlesque  of  the  Parthenon.  It 
is  the  Gothic,  Byzantine,  Moresque  styles  in  literature 
which  give  the  true  material  for  travesty,  just  as  they 
allow  the  greatest  intellectual  freedom. 

THE  ANCIENT.  We  shall  have  to  dub  you  "  the  Pugin 
of  Poetry."  You  've  been  taking  a  hint  from  Clough's 
Bothie. 

THE  GANNET.  Which  Zo'ilus  does  n't  like,  because  of 
the  hexameters,  although  there  never  were  lighter  and 
less  encumbered  lines.  With  all  Clough's  classicism,  his 
is  a  thoroughly  Saxon-Gothic  mind.  Where  will  you 
find  a  more  remarkable  combination  of  richness  and  sub 
tlety,  of  scholarly  finish  and  the  frankest  realism  ?  He 
is  the  only  man  who  has  ever  made  English  phrase  flow 
naturally  in  elegiac  cadence.  You,  certainly,  must  re 
member,  Ancient  ? 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

"  Where,  upon  Apennine  slope,  with  the  chestnut  the  oak -trees 

immingle, 

Where  amid  odorous  copse  hridle-paths  wander  and  wind, 
Where  under  mulberry  branches  the  diligent  rivulet  sparkles, 
Or  amid  cotton  and  maize  peasants  their  water-works  ply, 
Where,  over  fig-tree  and  orange  in  tier  upon  tier  still  re 
peated, 

Garden  on  garden  upreared,  balconies  step  to  the  sky,  — 
Ah,  that  I  were,  far  away  from  the  crowd  and  the  streets 

of  the  city, 
Under  the  vine-trellis  laid,  0  my  beloved,  with  thee  ! " 

ZOILUS.     O,  if  you  once  begin  to  quote,  I  surrender. 
THE  ANCIENT.     Let  us  all  part  on  good  terms  ;  that 
is,  each  holding  to  his  own  opinion.  [Exeunt. 


NIGHT   THE   SIXTH. 


(Enter  ZOILUS,  last,  the  others  being  already  assembled:  he 
throws  down  a  newspaper  on  the  table?) 

nOILTJS.  There  !  Read  that  notice  of  my  last 
article  in ,  and  tell  me  whether  such  criti 
cism  is  apt  to  encourage  the  development  of  an 
American  literature  ! 
THE  GANNET  (taking  the  paper).  I  see  where  it  is, 
by  the  dint  of  your  thumb-nail ;  there  are  only  half  a 
dozen  lines,  in  what  I  should  call  the  sneering-oracular 
style  ;  but,  Zo'ilus,  you  have  yourself  done  a  great  deal  of 
this  thing.  Now  the  poisoned  chalice  is  commended  to 
your  own  lips.  It  is  singular  how  little  sympathy  we 
have  for  others,  in  such  cases.  When  I  am  abused, 
somebody  always  sends  the  paper  to  me  with  lines  drawn 
around  the  article,  so  that  I  shall  not  miss  it ;  and  all  my 
friends  are  sure  to  ask,  "  Have  you  seen  what  So-and-so 
says  ?  "  When  I  am  praised,  nobody  sends  the  paper, 
and  my  friends  take  it  for  granted  that  I  have  read  the 
article.  I  don't  complain  of  them  :  they  are  naturally 
silent  when  they  agree,  and  aroused  when  they  disagree, 
with  the  criticism. 

THE  ANCIENT.      This  notice  is  not  fair,  of  course ; 
but  it- is  only  a  part  of  the  prevalent  fashion  of  criticism. 


114     DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

One  never  can  he  sure,  in  such  cases,  whether  the  writer 
is  really  sincere  in  his  judgment,  or  whether  he  has  seized 
an  opportunity  to  make  a  little  literary  capital  for  himself 
at  the  expense  of  the  author.  But  I  firmly  believe  in  the 
ultimate  triumph  of  good  work  over  all  these  airs  of  supe 
rior  knowledge  and  patronage  and  contemptuous  depre 
ciation.  A  friend  of  mine  once  devoted  a  great  deal  of 
time  to  a  very  careful  and  thorough  article  upon  a  poet 
who  wrote  in  a  dialect  with  which  not  ten  men  in  this 
country  are  familiar.  He  afterwards  showed  me  the 
critical  notices  it  drew  forth,  and  those  which  treated  the 
subject  with  the  coolest  possible  air  of  knowledge  were 
written  by  men  who  knew  nothing  whatever  about  it. 

GALAHAD.  Then  how  is  the  ordinary  reader  ever  to 
be  enlightened  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Most  readers,  I  imagine,  simply  like, 
or  dislike,  what  they  read.  Authors  greatly  exaggerate 
the  effect  of  inadequate  criticism.  Why,  do  you  know 
that  critical  genius  is  much  rarer  than  poetical  ?  You 
are  not  afraid  of  the  crude  poets,  who  publish  in  news 
paper  corners,  pushing  you  from  your  stools  of  song : 
why  should  you  be  annoyed  by  the  critics  who  stand 
upon  the  same  intellectual  plane  ?  Let  me  repeat  to  you 
what  the  greatest  of  critics,  Lessing,  said :  "  What  is 
tolerable  in  my  labors  is  owing  solely  to  the  critical  fac 
ulty.  I  am,  therefore,  always  ashamed  or  grieved  when 
ever  1  hear  anything  said  to  the  disadvantage  of  that 
faculty.  It  is  said  to  crush  genius,  and  1  flattered  myself 
that  I  had  received  in  it  something  akin  to  genius." 
After  Lessing,  we  can  only  accept  Jeffrey  with  certain 
reservations,  until  we  come  to  Sainte-Beuve.  In  this 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.          115 

country,  I  call  Lowell  the  first  critic,  though  Whipple 
and  Ripley  have  high  and  honorable  places.  A  true 
critic  must  not  only  be  a  universal  scholar,  but  as  clear- 
conscienced  as  a  saint  and  as  tenderly  impressible  as  a 
woman.  After  that  he  may  be  rigid  as  Minos. 

ZOILUS.  But  you  will  certainly  agree  with  me,  that 
a  critical  literature  of  the  kind  you  describe  —  intelligent, 
appreciative,  sympathetic,  and  rigidly  just  —  is  much 
needed  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.     Never  more  than  just  now. 

ZOILUS.  What  then,  frankly,  do  you  think  of  the  tone 
of  this  paper,  and  the and  the ? 

THE  ANCIENT  (smiling).  They  remind  me  so  much 
of  a  little  satirical  poem  of  Uhlaud,  "  The  Spring-Song  of 
the  Critic,"  that  I  am  comforted  and  amused,  when  I 
might  otherwise  be  most  annoyed.  There  never  was  a 
more  admirable  picture  of  that  fine,  insidious  egotism  of 
the  spurious  critic,  which  makes  him  fear  to  praise,  lest 
admiration  should  imply  inferiority.  I  can't  remember 
the  original  lines,  or  I  would  translate  it  for  you ;  but  I 
might  try  an  American  paraphrase. 

OMNES.     By  all  means !     (THE  ANCIENT  writes^) 

ZOILUS.  1  feel  as  if  I  had  had  whiskey  poured  into  an 
open  wound.  You  made  me  smart  savagely  for  a  few 
minutes  ;  but  lam  already  getting  comfortable. 

THE  GANNET.  There  is  no  real  comfort  until  you  grow 
pachydermatous ;  I  don't  envy  Galahad  the  seasoning 
that  awaits  him. 

GALAHAD.  I  have  part  of  my  experience  vicariously, 
in  Zo'ilus. 

ZOILUS.     The  devil  you  have  !  wait,  my  boy,  until  you 


116  DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

publish  your  next  poem :  I  '11  return  it  to  you,  with  in 
terest  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Uhland  makes  the  critic  walk  out  in 
the  spring-time,  and  patronize  Nature  in  his  usual  tone, 
the  very  tone  of  which  Zoilus  complains.  This  is  a  rough 
imitation :  — 

H'm  !     Spring  ?     'T  is  popular,  we  've  heard, 

And  must  be  noticed,  therefore  ; 
Not  that  a  flower,  a  brook,  or  bird 

Is  what  we  greatly  care  for. 

The  trees  are  budding  :  immature  ! 

Yet  them,  no  doubt,  admire  some : 
One  leaf  comes  like  another,  sure, 

And  on  the  whole  it 's  tiresome. 

What  kind  of  bird  is  this  we  hear  ? 

The  song  is  vague  and  mystic ; 
Some  notes,  we  grant,  are  smooth  and  clear, 

But  not  at  all  artistic. 

We  're  not  quite  sure  we  wholly  like 
Those  ferns  that  wave  and  spread  so  : 

'T  is  safe  to  doubt  the  things  that  strike 
The  eye  at  once  ;  we  've  said  so. 

An  odor  ?     H'm !  it  might  be  worse ; 

There  must  be  violets  nigh  us  : 
Quite  passable  !     (For  Shakespeare's  verse, 

This  time,  will  justify  us.) 

A  native  plant !     We  don't  know  what : 
Some,  now,  would  call  it  pleasant, 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    117 

But,  really,  we  would  rather  not 
Commit  ourselves,  at  present. 

But  further  time  we  will  not  waste, 

Neglecting  our  position ; 
To  scourge  the  stupid  public  taste 

Is  our  peculiar  mission. 

And  if  men  saw  us,  and  should  deem 
(Those  ignorant  human  brothers  !) 

That  we  the  Spring  enjoyed,  we  'd  seem 
No  better  than  the  others  ! 

OMNES.     Good !     It  reads  like  an  original. 

THE  ANCIENT.  It  is  one,  properly :  I  have  not  trans 
lated  any  of  Uhland's  phrases.  However,  let  us  change 
the  theme,  for  this  is  a  dangerous  hobby  of  mine,  and  we 
have  other  work  before  us.  How  many  names  are  there 
still  undrawn  ? 

THE  GANNET  (looking  in  the  hat).    A  dozen  yet! 

THE  ANCIENT  (drawing).  James  Russell  Lowell, — 
1  must  gird  up  my  loins. 

THE  GANNET.    Bayard  Taylor. 

ZOILUS.     Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

GALAHAD.     George  H<  Boker. 

THE  GANNET.  The  supply  will  be  exhausted  in  two 
or  three  nights  more,  and  then  all  our  fun  must  come  to 
an  end.  There  will  be  nothing  left  for  us,  but  to  travesty 
each  other. 

THE  CHORUS.  An  excellent  idea !  Four  times  four, 
each  doing  each  other  and  himself  also,  will  give  us  six 
teen  imitations. 


118    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

ZOILUS.  No  doubt  you  would  enjoy  it  hugely.  Turn 
to  Lucretius  for  a  picture  of  the  delight  of  sitting  on  the 
safe  shore  and  looking  at  the  waves  in  a  storm  ! 

THE  CHORUS.  "  The  swelling  and  falling  of  the  waves 
is  the  life  of  the  sea." 

ZOILUS.  Go  to,  with  your  quotations  !  How  easy  it 
is  to  apply  a  high  moral  stimulus  to  somebody  else's 
mind  !  Every  poet,  in  his  secret  soul,  admits  his  exqui 
site,  quivering  sensitiveness  for  the  children  of  his  brain. 
He  may  hide  it  from  the  sight  of  every  one ;  but  it  is 
there,  or  he  would  not  be  a  poet ;  and  he  is  always  most 
artlessly  surprised  at  the  betrayal  of  the  same  feeling  in 
another.  /,  of  course,  should  coolly  bear  any  amount  of 
travesty ;  but  how  would  it  be  with  the  Ancient,  the  Gan- 
net,  and  Galahad  ? 

THE  GANNET.  Zo'ilus,  you  're  a  humbug !  Take  your 
pencil  and  begin  your  work :  see  how  the  Ancient  is  reel 
ing  off  his  lines ! 

(They  write  steadily  for  ffteen  or  twenty  minutes;  then  all 
havefnished  except  THE  ANCIENT.) 

THE  ANCIENT.  Mine  is  no  easy  task,  and  I  'm  afraid 
I  have  laid  it  out  on  too  extensive  a  plan. 

OMNES.     Go  on :  we  will  wait. 

THE  ANCIENT  (ten  minutes  later).  You  will  sympa 
thize  with  me,  Galahad,  for  you  know  how  much  I  like 
Lowell's  poetry.  I  have  followed  him  from  the  start, 
when  he  seemed  like  a  vigorous  young  oak,  and  like  an 
oak  he  has  grown  slowly,  strongly,  and  with  ever-broad 
ening  branches.  But  one  can  sport,  as  well  as  pray, 
under  your  large  trees.  (Reads) 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.         119 

"*  CALIFOP 


THE  SAGA  OF  AHAB  DOOLITTLE. 

Who  hath  not  thought  himself  a  poet  ?     Who, 
Feeling  the  stubbed  pin-feathers  pricking  through 
His  greenish  gosling-down,  but  straight  misdeems 
Himself  anointed  ?     They  must  run  their  course, 
These  later  measles  of  the  fledgling  mind, 
Pitting  the  adolescent  rose  with  brown, 
And  after,  leaving  scars  ;  and  we  must  bear, 
WTho  come  of  other  stirp,  no  end  of  roil, 
Slacken  our  strings,  disorient  ourselves, 
And  turn  our  ears  to  huge  conchyliar  valves 
To  hear  the  shell-hum  that  would  fain  be  sea. 

0  guarding  thorn  of  Life's  dehiscent  bud, 
Exasperation  !     Did  we  clip  thee  close, 
Disarm  ourselves  with  non-resistant  shears, 
And  leave  our  minds  demassachusetted, 

What  fence  'gainst  inroad  of  the  spoiling  throng? 
For  Fame  's  a  bird  that  in  her  wayward  sweep 
Gossips  to  all ;  then,  raven-like,  comes  home 
Hoarse-voiced  as  autumn,  and,  as  autumn  leaves 
Behind  her,  blown  by  all  the  postal  winds, 
Letters  and  manuscripts  from  unknown  hands. 
Thus  came  not  Ahab's  :  his  he  brought  himself, 
One  morn,  so  clear  with  impecunious  gold, 

1  said  :  "  Chaucer  yet  lives,  and  Calderon  !  " 
And,  letting  down  the  gangways  of  the  mind 
For  shipment  from  the  piers  of  common  life, 
O'er  Learning's  ballast  meant  some  lighter  freight 
To  stow,  for  export  to  Macarian  Isles. 

But  it  was  not  to  be ;  a  tauroid  knock 


120          DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

Shook  the  ash-panels  of  my  door  with  pain, 

And  to  my  vexed  "  Come  in  !  "  Ahab  appeared. 

Homespun,  at  least,  —  thereat  I  swiftly  felt 

Somewhat  of  comfort,  —  tall,  knock-kneed,  and  gaunt 

Face  windy -red,  hands  horny,  large  and  loose, 

That  groped  for  mine,  and  finding,  dropped  at  once 

As  half  ashamed ;  and  thereupon  he  grinned. 

I  waited,  silent,  till  the  silence  grew 

Oppressive  ;  but  he  bore  it  like  a  man ; 

Then,  as  my  face  still  queried,  opened  wide 

The  stiff  portcullis  of  his  rustic  speech, 

Whence  issued  words  :  "  You  'd  hardly  kalkelate 

That  I  'm  a  poet,  but  I  kind  o'  guess 

I  be  one ;  so  the  people  say,  to  hum." 

Then  from  his  cavernous  armpit  drew  and  gave 

The  singing  leaves,  not  such  as  erst  I  knew, 

But  strange,  disjointed,  where  the  unmeasured  feet 

Staggered  allwhither  in  pursuit  of  rhyme, 

And  could  not  find  it :  assonance  instead, 

Cases  and  verbs  misplaced  —  remediable  those  — 

Broad-shouldered  coarseness,  fondly  meant  for  wit. 

I  turned  the  leaves  ;  his  small,  gray,  hungry  eye 

Stuck  like  a  burr ;  agape  with  hope  his  mouth. 

What  could  I  say  ?  the  worn  conventional  phrase 

We  use  on  such  occasions,  —  better  wait, 

Verse  must  have  time  ;  its  seed,  like  timothy-grass, 

Sown  in  the  fall  to  sprout  the  following  spring, 

Is  often  winter-killed ;  none  can  decide  ; 

A  single  rain-drop  prints  the  eocene, 

While  crow-bars  fail  on  lias :  so  with  song : 

The  Doom  is  born  in  each  thing's  primitive  stuff. 

Perchance  he  understood  not ;  yet  I  thrust 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB.         121 

Some  hypodermic  hope  within  his  flesh, 

Unconsciously  ;  erelong  he  came  again. 

Would  I  but  see  his  latest  ?     I  did  see ; 

Shuddered,  and  answered  him  in  sterner  wise. 

I  love  to  put  the  bars  up,  shutting  out 

My  pasture  from  the  thistle-cropping  beasts 

Or  squealing  hybrids,  who  have  range  enough 

On  our  New  England  commons,  —  whom  the  Fiend, 

Encouragement-of-Native-Talent,  feeds 

With  windy  provender,  in  Waverley, 

And  Flag,  and  Ledger,  weakly  manger-racks. 

Months  passed  ;  the  catbird  on  the  elm-tree  sang 
"What  "  Free  from  Ahab  !  "  seemed,  and  I  believed. 
But,  issuing  forth  one  autumn  morn,  that  shone 
As  Earth  were  made  October  twenty -seventh 
(Some  ancient  Bible  gives  the  date),  he  shot 
Across  my  path  as  sped  from  Ensign's  bow, 
More  grewsome,  haggard-seeming  than  before. 
Ere  from  his  sinister  armpit  his  right  hand 
Could  pluck  the  sheets,  I  thundered  forth,  "Aroint!  " 
Not  using  the  Anglo-Saxon  shibboleth, 
But  exorcismal  terms,  unusual,  fierce, 
Such  as  would  make  a  saint  disintimate. 
The  witless  terror  in  his  face  nigh  stayed 
My  speech,  but  I  was  firm  and  passed  him  by. 
Ah,  not  three  weeks  were  sped,  ere  he  again 
Waylaid  me  in  the  meadows,  with  these  words  : 
"  I  saw  thet  snthin'  riled  you,  the  last  time ; 
Be  you  in  sperrits  now  ?  *'• — and  drew  again  — 
But  why  go  on  ?     I  met  him  yesterday, 
The  nineteenth  time,  —  pale,  sad,  but  patient  still. 
6 


122    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

When  Hakon  steered  the  dragons,  there  was  place, 
Though  but  a  thrall's,  beside  the  eagle-helms, 
For  him  who  rhymed  instead  of  rougher  work, 
For  speech  is  thwarted  deed :  the  Berserk  fire 
But  smoulders  now  in  strange  attempts  at  verse, 
"While  hammering  sword-blows  mend  the  halting  rhyme, 
Give  mood  and  tense  unto  the  well-thewed  arm, 
And  turn  these  ignorant  Ahabs  into  bards ! 

ZOILUS.  Faith!  I  think  each  of  us  imitates  most  amus 
ingly  the  very  authors  whom  he  most  admires.  I  might 
have  made  something  fiercer,  but  it  would  n't  have  been 
more  characteristic. 

THE  GANNET.  When  you  seem  dissatisfied  with 
LowelFs  work,  I  can  still  see  that  you  recognize  his 
genius.  I  agree  with  you  that  he  sometimes  mistakes 
roughness  for  strength,  and  is  sometimes  consciously 
careless ;  but  neither  his  faults  nor  his  virtues  are  of  the 
common  order.  I  like  him  for  the  very  quality  out  of 
which  both  grow,  —  his  evident  faith  in  the  inspiration 
of  the  poet.  In  "  The  Cathedral "  he  says  "  second- 
thoughts  are  prose,"  which  is  always  true  of  the  prime 
conception ;  but  lie  seems  often  to  apply  it  to  the  details 
of  verse.  His  sympathy  with  the  Norse  and  Nibe- 
lungen  elements  in  literature,  and  with  the  old  English 
ballads,  is  natural  and  very  strong.  Perhaps  it  is  not 
always  smoothly  fused  with  the  other  spirit  which  is 
born  of  his  scholarship  and  taste  and  artistic  feeling.  I 
care  less  for  that :  to  my  mind,  he  is  always  grandly 
tonic  and  stimulating. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  think  the  objection  which  Zoilus 
makes  comes  simply  from  the  fact  that  many  of  Lowell's 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    123 

poems  are  overweighted  with  ideas.  Instead  of  pouring 
a  thin,  smooth  stream,  he  tilts  the  bottle  a  little  too 
much,  and  there  is  an  impetuous,  uneven  crowding  of 
thought.  But  I  should  rather  say  that  he  is  like  his 
own  "  Cathedral,"  large,  Gothic,  with  many  a  flying 
buttress,  pinnacles  melting  in  the  air,  and  now  and  then 
a  grotesque  gargoyle  staring  down  upon  you.  There 
is  a  great  range  between  Hosea  Biglow  and  the  Harvard 
Ode. 

ZOILUS.  I  confess  I  don't  like  unmixed  enthusiasm, 
and  I  'm  frequently  provoked  to  spy  out  the  weak  points 
of  any  author  who  gets  much  of  it.  How  I  should  feel 
if  it  were  bestowed  on  me,  I  can't  tell ;  probably  as  com 
placent  as  the  rest  of  you. 

THE  GANNET.  O  Zo'ilus,  when  you  know  that  /  'm 
only  considered  "  brilliant,"  and  get  the  most  super 
ficial  praise ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Come,  come !  This  is  a  sort  of  per 
sonality.  Who  's  next  ? 

GALAHAD.     Zoilus  was  ready  first. 

ZOILUS.  Yes,  and  none  too  soon.  Mrs.  Barrett 
Browning  was  a  tough  subject  for  me,  and  I  was  glad  to 
get  her  off  my  hands.  Do  you  know  that  it  is  much 
more  difficult  to  travesty  a  woman's  poem  than  a 
man's  ?  (Reads.) 

GWENDOLINE. 

*T  was  not  the  brown  of  chestnut  houghs 

That  shadowed  her  so  finely : 
It  was  the  hair  that  swept  her  brows, 

And  framed  her  face  divinely  ; 


DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

Her  tawny  hair,  her  purple  eyes, 

The  spirit  was  ensphered  in, 
That  took  you  with  such  swift  surprise, 

Provided  you  had  peered  in. 

Her  velvet  foot  amid  the  moss 

And  on  the  daisies  patted, 
As,  querulous  with  sense  of  loss, 

It  tore  the  herhage  matted  : 
"  And  come  he  early,  come  he  late," 

She  saith,  "  it  will  undo  me  ; 
The  sharp  fore-speeded  shaft  of  fate 

Already  quivers  through  me. 

"  When  I  beheld  his  red-roan  steed, 

I  knew  what  aim  impelled  it  ; 
And  that  dim  scarf  of  silver  brede, 

I  guessed  for  whom  he  held  it  : 
I  recked  not,  while  he  flaunted  by, 

Of  Love's  relentless  vi'lence, 
Yet  o'er  me  crashed  the  summer  sky, 

In  thunders  of  blue  silence. 


"  His  hoof-prints  crumbled  down  the  vale, 

But  left  behind  their  lava  ; 
What  should  have  been  my  woman's  mail 

Grew  jellied  as  guava  : 
I  looked  him  proud,  but  'neath  my  pride 

I  felt  a  boneless  tremor  ; 
He  was  the  Beer,  I  descried, 

And  I  was  but  the  Seemer  ! 

"  Ah,  how  to  be  what  then  I  seemed, 
And  bid  him  seem  that  is  so  ! 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    125 

We  always  tangle  threads  we  dreamed, 

And  contravene  our  bliss  so. 
I  see  the  red-roan  steed  again  ! 

He  looks,  as  something  sought  he : 
Why,  hoity-toity !  —  he  is  fain, 

So  I'll  be  cold  and  haughty  !  " 

THE  ANCIENT.  You  have  done  about  as  well  as  could 
he  expected  ;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  have  recog 
nized  it,  without  the  red-roan  steed  and  the  thunders  of 
blue  silence.  However,  Mrs.  Browning's  force  is  always 
so  truly  feminine  that  one  cannot  easily  analyze  it.  There 
is  an  underlying  weakness — or,  at  least,  a  sense  of  reliance 
—  when  she  is  most  vigorous,  and  you  feel  the  beating 
of  an  excited  pulse  when  she  is  most  calmly  classic.  She 
often  slips  into  questionable  epithets  and  incongruous 
images,  I  grant  you  ;  but  I  can  see  the  first  form  of  her 
thought  through  them. 

GALAHAD.  Has  any  other  woman  reached  an  equal 
height  in  English  poetry? 

THE  CHORUS.    No! 

THE  GANNET.     George  Eliot  ? 

ZOILUS.  Now  you  bring  the  two  squarely  before  my 
mind,  I  also  say,  No  !  I  do  not  rightly  know  where  to 
place  George  Eliot. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Among  the  phenomena,  —  unsur 
passed  as  a  prose  writer,  and  with  every  quality  of  the 
poet  except  the  single  one  which  is  born  and  never 
acquired.  It  is  amazing  to  see  how  admirable  her  verse 
is,  and  how  near  to  high  poetry,  —  as  if  only  a  sheet  of 
plate-glass  were  between,  —  and  yet  it  is  not  poetry. 
Her  lines  are  like  the  dancing  figures  on  a  frieze,  sym- 


126    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

metry  itself,  but  they  do  not  move.  When  I  read  them, 
I  am  always  on  the  very  verge  of  recognizing  her  as 
a  poet,  always  expecting  the  warm-blooded  measures 
which  sing  their  way  into  my  own  blood,  and  yet  I  never 
cross  the  invisible  boundary. 

THE  GANNET.  Shall  we  go  on  ?  I  have  Bayard  Tay 
lor,  who  took  possession  of  me  readily  enough.  I  know 
his  earlier  Oriental  better  than  his  later  poems.  He 
does  n't  seem  to  have  any  definite  place  yet  as  a  poet. 

ZOILUS.  Then  it  comes  of  having  too  many  irons  in 
the  fire. 

GALAHAD.  He  may  have  made  some  mistakes ;  in 
deed,  I  think  so,  myself;  but  I  find  signs  of  a  struggle 
towards  some  new  form  of  development  in  his  later 
poems,  and  mean  to  give  him  a  little  more  opportunity. 
His  rhetoric  is  at  the  same  time  his  strength  and  his 
weakness,  for  it  has  often  led  him  away  from  the  true 
substance  of  poetry. 

THE  ANCIENT.  There  you  are  right,  Galahad.  Na 
ture  and  the  sensuous  delight  of  life  for  a  while  got  the 
upper  hand  of  him,  and  he  wrote  many  things  which 
aimed  to  be  more,  and  were  not.  I  think  better  of  his 
later  direction ;  but  how  far  it  will  carry  him  depends 
on  his  industry  and  faith.  Let  us  have  the  echo  ! 

THE  GANNET.     (Reads) 

HADRAMAUT. 

The  grand  conglomerate  hills  of  Araby 

That  stand  empanoplied  in  utmost  thought, 
With  dazzling  ramparts  front  the  Indian  sea, 
Down  there  in  Hadrainaut. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    127 

The  sunshine  smashes  in  the  doors  of  morn 

And  leaves  them  open ;  there  the  vibrant  calm 
Of  life  magniloquent  pervades  forlorn 
The  giant  fronds  of  palm. 

The  cockatoo  upon  the  upas  screams  ; 

The  armadillo  fluctuates  o'er  the  hill ; 
And  like  a  flag,  incarnadined  in  dreams, 
All  crimsonly  I  thrill ! 

There  have  iconoclasts  no  power  to  harm, 
So,  folded  grandly  in  translucent  mist, 
I  let  the  light  stream  down  my  jasper  arm, 
And  o'er  my  opal  fist. 

An  Adamite  of  old,  primeval  Earth, 

I  see  the  Sphinx  upon  the  porphyry  shore, 
Deprived  of  utterance  ages  ere  her  birth, 
As  I  am,  —  only  more  ! 

Who  shall  ensnare  me  with  invested  gold, 

Or  paper  symbols,  backed  like  malachite  ? 
Let  gaunt  reformers  objurgate  and  scold, 
I  gorge  me  with  delight. 

I  do  not  yearn  for  what  I  covet  most ; 

I  give  the  winds  the  passionate  gifts  I  sought ; 
And  slumber  fiercely  on  the  torrid  coast, 
Down  there  in  Hadramaut ! 

GALAHAD.  That  is  extravagantly  and  absurdly  like 
some  of  his  poems.  You  seem  to  have  had  in  your  mind 
the  very  feature  I  mentioned,  —  his  rhetoric.  I  doubt 
whether  I  shall  succeed  as  well  with  Eoker.  He  and 


128  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

Bayard  Taylor  are  both  Pemisylvanians,  of  nearly  the 
same  age,  yet  they  are  not  at  all  alike. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  remember  Boker's  first  volume. 
There  was  a  flavor  of  the  Elizabethan  English  about  it, 
which  was  unusual  at  the  time.  Then  came  his  tragedy 
of  "  Calaynos,"  one  of  the  few  successful  modern  plays 
formed  on  the  old  classic  models ;  it  ran  for  nearly  a 
hundred  nights  in  England.  But  you  cannot  imitate  his 
best  work,  which  is  in  this  and  the  later  plays ;  you  must 
choose  between  his  ballads  and  his  sonnets. 

GALAHAD.  I  have  tried  something  half  ballad  and 
half  song,  in  his  style.  (Reads.) 

PHEBE  THE   FAIR. 

I  lie  and  I  languish  for  Phebe  the  Fair, 

Ah,  welladay ! 

The  blue  of  her  eyes,  the  brown  of  her  hair, 
The  elbows  that  dance  and  the  ankles  that  gleam, 
As  she  bends  at  her  washing-tub  there  by  the  stream, 
Disdaining  to  see  me,  so  what  can  I  say 

But,  ah,  welladay! 

I  met  her  last  night  when  the  moon  was  at  full, 

Alas  and  alack ! 

Bewitchingly  hooded  with  mufflers  of  wool; 
Her  cloak  of  gray  duffle  she  wore  to  a  charm, 
So  boldly  I  offered  the  maiden  my  arm, 
But  she  coolly  responded,  "  You  take  the  back  track !  " 

Alas  and  alack ! 

Though  I  'm  but  a  blacksmith  and  Hugo  a  lord, 
Sing  hey,  uonriy  nonny  ! 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB.          JL&9 

Though  I  've  but  a  hammer  and  he  has  a  sword, 
When  he  leans  from  his  destrier  Phebe  to  greet, 
I  could  smash  him  to  cinders  before  her  white  feet, 
For  lords  have  no  business  with  maidens  so  bonny, 
Sing  hey,  nonny  nonny ! 

I  've  given  up  Margery,  given  up  Maud, 

Ah,  welladay,  Phebe ! 

But  the  snow  of  your  bosom  by  love  is  unthawed ; 
The  hues  of  my  life  are  all  fading,  I  guess, 
As  the  calico  fades  in  the  suds  that  you  press : 
You  are  scouring  the  heart  of  your  languishing  G.  B., 

Ah,  welladay,  Phebe ! 

THE  GANNET.  I  remember  those  ballads,  with  a 
curious  antique  flavor  about  them ;  but  I  am  best  ac 
quainted  with  Boker's  sonnets.  I  don't  think  they  have 
been  appreciated  as  they  deserve;  but  then,  there  are 
hardly  twelve  sonnets  in  the  English  language  which  can 
be  called  popular.  Take  one  of  Keats,  three  of  Words 
worth,  three  of  Milton,  possibly  Blanco  White's  one,  and 
four  or  five  of  Shakespeare,  and  you  have  nearly  all  that 
are  familiarly  known.  I  '11  try  my  hand  at  an  imitation 
of  Boker's  grave,  sustained  measure.  (Writes.) 

THE  ANCIENT.  No  one  of  our  authors  is  so  isolated 
as  he,  and  it  is  a  double  disadvantage.  When  Philadel 
phia  ceased  to  be  a  literary  centre,  which  happened  very 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  the  tone  of  society  there 
seemed  to  change.  Instead  of  the  open  satisfaction  of 
Boston  in  her  brilliant  circle  of  authors,  or  the  passive 
indifference  of  our  New  York,  there  is  almost  a  positive 
depreciation  of  borne  talent  in  Philadelphia.  Boker  is 


130    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

most  disparaged  in  his  native  city,  and  most  appreciated 
in  New  England.  There  is  always  less  of  petty  envy 
where  the  range  of  culture  is  highest. 

ZOILUS.  No,  there  is  not  less,  granting  the  culture  to 
be  higher ;  there  is  only  more  tact  and  policy  in  express 
ing  it. 

THE  GANNET.  Listen  to  Boker's  999th  sonnet,  dic 
tated  through  me!  (Reads) 

I  charge  not  with  degrees  of  excellence 

That  fair  revolt  which  rested  on  thy  name, 

Nor  burden  with  imcomprehended  blame 

The  speech,  which  still  eludes  my  swooning  sense, 

Though  this  poor  rhyme  at  least  were  some  defence 

Against  thy  chill  suspicion  :  yet,  if  Fame 

Lift  up  and  burnish  what  is  now  my  shame, 

'T  would  mitigate  a  passion  so  intense. 

This  trampled  verse  awhile  my  heart  relieves 

From  stringent  pain,  that  cleft  me  as  I  turned 

Away  from  beauty,  graciously  displayed  ; 

And  still  one  dominant  emotion  cleaves 

The  clouds,  whereon  thy  passing  lustre  burned, 

And  leaves  behind  it  gulfs  of  blacker  shade. 

GALAHAD.  How  could  you  echo  the  tone  and  atmos 
phere  of  a  sonnet,  without  adding  one  particle  of  sense? 

THE  GANNET.  Attribute  it  to  my  empty  head,  if  you 
please.  I  really  cannot  explain  how  these  imitations 
arise  in  my  mind.  In  the  "  trance  condition,"  you  know, 
one  is  void  of  all  active  consciousness. 

ZOILUS.  If  you  go  on  indulging  such  an  idea,  you 
will  end  by  becoming  a  professional  medium. 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO    CLUB. 


131 


THE  GANNET.  Well,  —  at  least  I  '11  dictate  to  tlie 
world  better  verse  than  has  ever  yet  come,  in  that  way, 
from  the  unfortunate  dead  poets. 

GALAHAD.     Could  you  equal  Demosthenes  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Tor  the  sake  of  Human  Reason  let 
us  drop  that  subject !  There  are  some  aberrations  which 
dishearten  us,  and  it  is  best  simply  to  turn  our  backs 
on  them.  Eor  my  part,  I  crave  music.  Zo'ilus,  give  us 
Herrick's  "  Julia,"  before  the  stirrup-cup ! 


OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY 


NIGHT  THE   SEVENTH. 


HIS  night  the  Gannet  led  the  way  to  the  more 
earnest  conversation,  by  returning  to  a  point 
touched  by  the  Ancient  at  their  fifth  meeting. 
He  said,  "  I  should  like  to  know  wherein  the 
period  of  fermentation,  which  precedes  the  appearance 
of  an  important  era  in  literature,  and  the  period  of  sub 
sidence,  or  decadence,  which  follows  it,  differ  from  each 
other." 

ZOILUS.  H'm !  that 's  rather  a  tough  problem  to  be 
solved  at  a  moment's  warning.  I  should  guess  that  the 
difference  is  something  like  that  between  the  first  and 
second  childhood  of  an  individual.  In  the  first  case,  the 
faults  are  natural,  heedless,  graceful,  and  always  suggest 
ive  of  something  to  be  developed ;  in  the  latter,  they  are 
helpless  repetitions,  which  point  only  towards  the  past. 

GALAHAD.  Are  you  not  taking  the  correspondence 
for  granted  ?  Is  it  exactly  justified  by  the  history  of  any 
great  era  in  literature  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Not  entirely.  But  there  is  surely  an 
irregular  groping  for  new  modes  of  thought  and  new 
forms  of  expression,  in  advance;  and  a  struggle,  after 
the  masters  of  the  age  have  gone,  to  keep  up  their  pitch 
of  achievement. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    133 

THE  GANNET.  Very  well;  you  are  near  enough  in 
accord  to  consider  my  next  question.  In  which  period 
are  we  living  at  present?  The  Ancient  says  that  we 
have  had  the  heroes  and  the  epiyonoi,  and  that  there  will 
be  many  fallow  years  :  I,  on  the  contrary,  feel  very  sure 
that  we  are  approaching  another  great  era ;  and  the  con 
fusion  of  which  he  spoke  the  other  night  is  an  addi 
tional  proof  of  it. 

THE  ANCIENT.  If  you  remember,  I  disclaimed  any 
power  of  prediction. 

THE  GANNET.  So  you  did ;  but  I  insist  that  the  rea 
sons  you  gave  are  just  as  powerful  against  your  conclu 
sions,  unless  you  can  show  us  that  the  phenomena  of  our 
day  are  those  which  invariably  characterize  a  period  of 
decadence.  I  have  been  reflecting  upon  the  subject  with 
more  earnestness  than  is  usual  to  me.  In  our  modern 
literature  I  do  not  find  echoes  of  any  other  than  the 
masters  who  are  still  living  and  producing,  especially 
Browning,  Longfellow,  and  Tennyson;  the  faint  reflec 
tions  of  Poe  seem  to  have  ceased ;  and  the  chief  charac 
teristic  of  this  day,  so  far  as  the  younger  authors  are 
concerned,  is  a  straining  after  novel  effects,  new  cos 
tumes  for  old  thoughts,  if  you  please,  but  certainly 
something  very  different  from  a  mere  repetition  of  forms 
of  style  which  already  exist.  That  there  is  confusion,  an 
absence  of  pure,  clearly  outlined  ideals  of  art,  I  am  will 
ing  to  admit.  I  accept  the  premises,  but  challenge  the 
inferences. 

GALAHAD.     I  am  only  too  ready  to  agree  with  you. 

THE  ANCIENT.  What  I  wish  is,  that  we  should  try 
to  comprehend  the  literary  aspects  of  our  time.  If  we 


134          DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB. 

can  turn  our  modern  habit  of  introversion  away  from  our 
individual  selves,  and  give  it  more  of  an  objective  char 
acter  (though  this  sounds  rather  paradoxical),  it  will  be  a 
gain  in  every  way.  A  period  of  decadence  is  not  neces 
sarily  characterized  by  repetition ;  it  may  manifest  itself 
in  exactly  such  straining  for  effect  as  the  Ganuet  admits. 
Poe,  for  instance,  or  Heine,  or  Browning,  makes  a  new 
manner  successful ;  what  more  natural,  then,  than  that 
an  inferior  poet  should  say  to  himself,  "  The  manner  is 
everything;  I  will  invent  one  for  myself!  "  I  find  some 
thing  too  much  of  this  prevalent,  and  it  does  not  inspire 
-me  with  hope. 

ZOILUS.  But  the  costume  of  the  thought,  as  of  the 
man,  is  really  more  important  than  the  body  it  hides.  And 
I  insist  that  manner  is  more  than  symmetry,  or  even 
strength,  as  the  French  have  been  shrewd  enough  to 
discover.  We  are  moving  towards  an  equal  brilliancy 
of  style,  only  most  of  us  are  zigzagging  on  all  sides  of 
the  true  path.  But  we  shall  find  it,  and  then,  look  out 
for  a  shining  age  of  literature ! 

THE  GANNET  (to  THE  ANCIENT).  You  were  speaking 
of  the  introversion  which  is  such  a  characteristic  of 
modern  thought.  Can  a  writer  avoid  it,  without  show 
ing,  in  the  very  effort,  that  he  possesses  it  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  doubt  it.  Goethe  tried  the  experi 
ment,  and  did  not  fairly  succeed.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  character  of  an  author  is  relative  to  the  highest  cul 
ture  of  his  generation.  I  have  never  found  that  there 
was  much  development  without  self-study ;  for  the  true 
artist  must  know  the  exact  measure  of  his  qualities,  in 
order  to  use  them  in  his  one  true  way.  This  is  a  law  as 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.          135 

applicable  to  Shakespeare  as  to  you ;  but  he  may  choose 
to  conceal  the  process,  and  you  may  choose  to  betray  it. 
For  a  poet  to  speculate  upon  his  own  nature,  in  his 
poems,  is  a  modern  fashion,  which  originated  with 
Wordsworth.  To  us  it  seems  an  over-consciousness; 
yet  it  may  seem  the  height  of  naive  candor,  and  therefore 
a  delightful  characteristic,  to  the  critics  of  two  centuries 
hence. 

ZOILUS.  Well,  upon  my  word,  Ancient,  you  are  the 
most  bewildering  of  guides  !  You  talk  of  eternal  laws, 
you  refer  to  positive  systems,  but  when  we  come  to  apply 
them,  there  is  nothing  permanent,  nothing  settled,  only  a 
labyrinth  of  perhapses  and  may-seems.  What  are  we  to 
do? 

THE  GANNET  (offering  the  hat).  To  draw  your  name, 
and  write. 

ZOILUS  (drawing).  Julia  Ward  Howe:  and  I  feel  no 
mission  within  me  !  I  shall  miserably  fail. 

THE  GANNET.     Jean  Ingelow  :  I  need  no  mission. 

GALAHAD.     The- saints  help  me  !     Walt  Whitman. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Buchanan  Read  :  /  must  call  on  the 
Pope,  to  judge  from  the  last  poem  of  his  which  I  have 
read.  There  are  but  one  or  two  more  slips  in  the  hat : 
whom  have  we  ?  Piatt,  Bret  Harte,  Joaquin  Miller ! 
Galahad,  I  suggest  that  you  return  our  yawping  cosmos, 
and  take  Piatt  in  his  stead  ;  then  let  us  add  John  Hay, 
and  we  shall  have  all  the  latest  names  together  for  our 
next  and  final  night  of  diversions. 

THE  GANNET.  I  second  your  proposal.  It  will  sepa 
rate  the  last  and  most  curious  phenomena  in  poetry  from 
those  which  preceded  them.  Perhaps  we  may  be  able 
to  guess  what  they  portend. 


136          DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB. 

GALAHAD  (changing  the  name).  I  am  so  grateful  for 
the  permission,  that  I  will  write  two ;  adding  to  the  imi 
tation  of  Piatt  that  of  the  author  of  "  A  Woman's  Poems/' 
in  whose  poetical  fortunes,  I  imagine,  he  feels  more  inter 
est  than  even  in  his  own.  I  am  attracted  by  her  poems 
as  the  Gannet  is  attracted  by  Mrs.  Stoddard's,  though  the 
two  are  wholly  unlike.  In  "  The  Woman  "  I  also  see  in 
dications  of  a  struggle  between  thought  and  language,  a 
reluctance  to  catch  the  flying  Psyche  by  the  wings,  and 
hold  her  until  every  wavering  outline  is  clear.  Women- 
poets  generally  stand  in  too  much  awe  of  their  own  con 
ceptions. 

ZOILTJS  (solemnly).  I  am  possessed!  Procul,  0  pro- 
cul,  —  or  at  least  be  silent.  (Writes?) 

(All  write  steadily,  and  finish  their  tasks  nearly  at  the  same 
time) 

THE  CHORUS.  You  came  up  so  nearly  neck  and  neck, 
that  only  we  who  timed  you  can  decide.  The  Gannet 
first. 

THE  GANNET.  Then  hearken  to  Jean  Ingelow. 
(Reads.) 

THE  SHRIMP-GATHERERS. 

Scarlet  spaces  of  sand  and  ocean, 

Gulls  that  circle  and  winds  that  blow  ; 

Baskets  and  boats  and  men  in  motion, 
Sailing  and  scattering  to  and  fro. 

Girls  are  waiting,  their  wimples  adorning 
With  crimson  sprinkles  the  broad  gray  flood ; 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    137 

And  down  the  beach  the  blush  of  the  morning 
Shines  reflected  from  moisture  and  mud. 

Broad  from  the  yard  the  sail  hangs  limpy ; 

Lightly  the  steersman  whistles  a  lay  ; 
Pull  with  a  will,  for  the  nets  are  shrimpy, 

Pull  with  a  whistle,  our  hearts  are  gay  ! 

Tuppence  a  quart ;  there  are  more  than  fifty  ! 

Coffee  is  certain,  and  beer  galore : 
Coats  are  corduroy,  minds  are  thrifty, 

Won't  we  go  it  on  sea  and  shore ! 

See,  behind,  how  the  hills  are  freckled 

With  low  white  huts,  where  the  lasses  bide  ! 

See,  before,  how  the  sea  is  speckled 

With  sloops  and  schooners  that  wait  the  tide ! 

Yarmouth  fishers  may  rail  and  roister, 
Tyne-side  boys  may  shout,  "  Give  way  !  " 

Let  them  dredge  for  the  lobster  and  oyster, 
Pink  and  sweet  are  our  shrimps  to-day ! 

Shrimps  and  the  delicate  periwinkle, 

Such  are  the  sea-fruits  lasses  love: 
Ho  !  to  your  nets  till  the  blue  stars  twinkle, 

And  the  shutterless  cottages  gleam  above ! 

THE  CHORUS.  A  very  courteous  echo.  The  Ancient 
was  next. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  think  if  Buchanan  Read  had  confined 
himself  to  those  short,  sweet,  graceful  lyrics  by  which  he 
first  became  known,  he  would  have  attained  a  better  suc 
cess.  It  is  singular,  by  the  by,  that  liis  art  does  not  color 


138    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

Lis  poetry,  as  in  Rossetti's  case ;  no  one  could  guess  that 
he  is  also  a  painter.  But  I  remember  that  Washington 
Allston  is  a  similar  instance.  Read's  best  poems  are 
those  which  have  a  pastoral  character,  and  I  have  turned 
to  them  for  his  characteristic  manner.  (Reads) 


A  SYLVAN  SCENE. 

The  moon,  a  reaper  of  the  ripened  stars, 
Held  out  her  silver  sickle  in  the  west ; 

I  leaned  against  the  shadowy  pasture-bars, 
A  hermit,  with  a  burden  in  my  breast. 

The  lilies  leaned  beside  me  as  I  stood ; 

The  lilied  heifers  gleamed  beneatb  the  shed  ; 
And  spirits  from  the  high  ancestral  wood 

Cast  their  articulate  benisons  on  my  head. 

The  twilight  oriole  sang  her  valentine 

From  pendulous  nests  above  the  stable-sill, 

And  like  a  beggar,  asking  alms  and  wine, 
Came  the  importunate  murmur  of  the  mill. 

Love  threw  his  flying  shuttle  through  my  woof, 
And  made  the  web  a  pattern  I  abhorred ; 

Wherefore  alone  I  sang,  and  far  aloof, 

My  melting  melodies,  mightier  than  the  sword. 

The  white-sleeved  mowers,  coming  slowly  home, 
With  scythes  like  rainbows  on  their  shoulders  hung, 

Sniffed  not,  in  passing  me,  the  scent  of  Rome, 
Nor  heard  the  music  trickling  from  my  tongue. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    139 

The  milkmaid,  following,  delayed  her  step, 

Still  singing  as  she  left  the  stable-yard : 
'T  was  "Sheridan's  Ride"  she  sang:  I  turned  and  wep', 

For  woman's  homage  soothes  the  suffering  bard ! 

GALAHAD.    Why  did  n't  you  take  Read's  "  Drifting  "  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  It  is  a  beautiful  poem,  but  would 
betray  itself  in  any  imitation.  My  object  was  to  catch 
his  especial  poetic  dialect. 

THE  CHORUS.     Now,  Zoilus. 

ZOILUS.  I  have  followed  exactly  the  Ancient's  plan, 
but  with  the  disadvantage  of  not  having  read  Mrs. 
Howe's  "  Passion  Elowers  "  lately ;  so  I  was  forced  to 
take  whatever  features  were  accessible,  from  her  prose  as 
well  as  verse.  {Reads.) 


THE  COMING  RACE. 

When  with  crisped  fingers  I  have  tried  to  part 

The  petals  which  compose 
The  azure  flower  of  high  aesthetic  art, 

More  firmly  did  they  close. 

Yet  woman  is  not  undeveloped  man,  — 

So  singeth  Tennyson  : 
Desire,  that  ever  Duty's  feet  outran, 

Begins,  but  sees  not  done. 

Our  life  is  full  of  passionate  dismay 

At  larger  schemes  grown  small ; 

That  which  thou  doest,  do  this  very  day, 
Then  art  thou  known  of  all. 


140    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

The  thing  that  was  ungerms  the  thing  to  be  ; 

Before  reflects  Behind ; 
So  blends  our  moral  trigonometry 

With  spheroids  of  the  mind. 

Time  shall  transfigure  many  a  paradox, 

Now  crushed  with  hoof's  of  scorn, 

When  in  the  beauty  of  the  hollyhocks 
The  Coming  Man  is  born. 

His  hand  the  new  Evangels  then  shall  hold, 

That  make  earth  epicene, 
And  on  his  shoulder,  coiffed  with  chrismal  gold, 

The  Coming  Woman  lean  ! 

THE  GANNET.  O,  she  should  not  lean  on  his  shoul 
der  !  That  is  a  dependent  attitude. 

ZOILUS.  I  know  ;  but  there  is  the  exigency  of  an  im 
mediate  rhyme,  and  "  epicene  "  is  a  word  which  I  could 
not  sacrifice. 

TIJE  ANCIENT.  You  have  hit  upon  one  of  the  vices 
of  our  literary  class,  —  the  superficial  refinement  which 
vents  itself  on  words  and  phrases.  I  have  seen  expres 
sions  of  both  love  and  grief  which  were  too  elegant  for 
passion.  The  strong  thought  always  finds  the  best 
speech,  but  as  its  total  form  :  it  does  not  pause  to  prink 
itself  by  the  way,  or  to  study  its  face  in  a  glass.  I  beg 
pardon,  Zoilus  ;  I  am  not  speaking  of,  but  from,  you. 

ZOILUS.  As  the  sinner  furnishes  more  texts  than  the 
saint. 

THE  CHORUS.     Let  us  not  keep  Galahad  waiting. 

GALAHAD.  I  promised  two,  but  have  only  finished 
the  first.  The  Gaiinet  must  keep  me  company ;  for  we 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    141 

were  nigh  forgetting  William  Winter,  and  lie  must  be 
entertained  before  our  board  is  cleared  for  the  last  com 
ers.  I  dare  say  we  shall  remember  others;  indeed,  I 
can  think  of  several  who  ought  to  please  the  Ancient,  for 
they  simply  give  us  their  ideas  without  any  manner  at 
all. 

THE  ANCIENT.  .  Sarcasm  from  Galahad  is  sarcasm  in 
deed  !  I  am  assailed  on  all  sides,  to-night.  But  let  us 
have  Piatt ;  we  have  all  looked  through  his  "  Western 
Windows." 

GALAHAD.     (Reads.) 

THE   OLD   FENCE-RAIL. 

It  lies  and  rots  by  the  roadside, 

Among  the  withering  weeds; 
The  blackberry-vines  run  o'er  it, 

And  the  thistles  drop  their  seeds. 

Below,  the  Miami  murmurs ; 

He  flows  as  he  always  flowed; 
And  the  people,  eastward  and  westward, 

Travel  the  National  Road. 

At  times  a  maiden's  glances 

Gild  it  with  tints  of  dawn, 
But  the  school. boy  snorts  with  his  nostrils, 

Kicks  it,  and  hastens  on. 

Above  it  the  pioneer's  chimney, 

Lonely  and  rickety,  leans ; 
Beside  it  the  pioneer's  garden 

Is  a  wildering  growth  of  greens. 


142          DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB. 

It  was  split  by  the  stalwart  settler, 

One  of  the  ancient  race, 
And  the  hands  of  his  tow-haired  children 

Lifted  it  into  its  place. 

Years  after  the  gawky  lover 

Sat  on  it,  dangling  his  heels, 
"While  his  girl  forgot  her  milking, 

And  the  pen,  with  its  hungry  squeals. 

Ah,  the  rail  has  its  own  romances, 
The  scenes  and  changes  of  years : 

I  pause  whenever  I  see  it, 
And  drop  on  it  several  tears. 

ZOILUS.  Don't  you  all  feel,  with  me,  that  our  imita 
tions  become  more  and  more  difficult  as  we  take  the 
younger  authors  who  give  us  sentiment,  fancy,  pure 
metres, — in  short,  very  agreeable  and  meritorious  work, 
—  but  who  neither  conquer  us  by  their  daring  nor  pro 
voke  us  by  offending  our  tastes  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  We  foresaw  this,  the  first  evening, 
you  will  remember.  There  are  many  excellent  poets, 
who  cannot  be  amusingly  travestied,  —  Collins,  or  Gold 
smith,  for  example.  I  was  just  deliberating  whether  to 
suggest  the  names  of  two  women  who  have  written  very 
good  poems,  Lucy  Larcom  and  she  who  calls  herself  "  H. 
H."  The  former  has  rhetoric  and  rhythm,  and  uses  both 
quite  independently ;  her  "  Hannah  Binding  Shoes  'J 
struck  an  original  vein,  which  I  wish  she  had  gone  on 
quarrying.  But  her  finest  poem,  "  The  Rose  Enthroned," 
could  only  be  appreciated  by  about  one  per  cent  of  her 
readers.  "  H.  H."  shows  delicacy  and  purity  of  scnti- 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO    CLUB.         143 

merit,  yet  her  verse  is  not  precisely  song.  Her  ear  fails 
to  catch  the  rarer  music  which  lurks  behind  metrical  cor 
rectness.  I  don't  well  see  how  either  could  be  imitated ; 
so  we  will  leave  the  Gannet  and  Galahad  to  their  second 
task. 

THE  GANNET  (looking  up).  What  you  have  been  say 
ing  also  applies  to  my  present  model.  Just  the  best 
poems  in  his  "  Witness "  are  so  simple,  so  sweetly  and 
smoothly  finished,  so  marked  by  pure  taste  and  delicate 
fancy,  that  a  good  travesty  would  have  the  air  of  a  seri 
ous  imitation. 

ZOILUS  (to  the  ANCIENT).  However  we  may  disagree, 
I  heartily  join  you  in  relishing  a  marked  individuality  in 
poetry. 

THE  ANCIENT.  When  it  is  honest,  when  it  frankly 
expresses  the  individual  nature,  not  too  much  restricted 
by  the  conventionalisms  of  the  day,  nor  yielding  too  in 
dolently  to  the  influences  of  other  minds.  It  is  a  notable 
characteristic  of  nearly  all  our  younger  poets,  that  they 
wander,  as  if  at  random,  over  such  a  wide  field,  before 
selecting  their  separate  paths.  One  cause  of  this,  I  should 
guess,  is  the  seduction  exercised  by  that  refinement  in 
form,  that  richness  and  variety  of  metrical  effect,  which 
marks  our  modern  poetry.  Twenty  years  ago,  our  only 
criticism  almost  ignored  the  idea  in  a  poem  ;  it  concerned 
itself  with  words,  lines,  or  stanzas,  italicizing  every  agree 
able  little  touch  of  fancy,  as  a  guide  to  the  reader.  Leigh 
Hunt  made  this  fashion  popular;  Poe  imitated  him;  and 
our  young  authors  were  taught  to  believe  in  detached 
beauties  of  expression,  instead  of  pure  and  symmetrical 
conceptions.  Take  the  earlier  poems  of  Stoddard,  Head, 


144    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

Aldrich,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  others,  and  you  cannot  fail 
to  see  how  they  were  led  astray. 

ZOILUS.  Then,  I  suppose,  their  genuine  poetical  qual 
ity  is  tested  by  the  extent  to  which  they  have  emanci 
pated  themselves  from  those  early  influences,  and  dis 
covered  their  proper  individualities  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Most  certainly ;  and  if  you  had  grown 
up  with  the  generation,  as  I  have  (being  very  little  older), 
you  would  see,  as  I  do  now,  how  each  is  struggling  out 
of  the  general  wilderness.  Boker  had  not  far  to  go ;  he 
grew  up  under  the  broad  wings  of  the  old  English  drama 
tists.  Stoddard  first  struck  his  highest  performance  in 
"  The  Fisher  and  Charon,"  and  Stedman  in  his  "  Alec- 
tryon,"  though  both  are  still  best  known  by  their  lighter 
lyrics.  Aldricli  seems  now  to  be  aware  of  his  native  grace 
and  delicacy  of  fancy,  and  Howells  of  the  sportive,  light 
some  element,  which  the  Weltschmerz  of  youth  for  a  time 
suppressed.  In  his  "Pastorals,"  Bayard  Taylor  seems 
inclined  to  seek  for  the  substance  of  poetry,  rather  than 
the  flash  and  glitter  of  its  rhetorical  drapery.  Piatt  is 
turning  more  and  more  to  that  which  lies  nearest  him : 
in  short,  without  pretending  to  decide  how  far  each  is 
successful,  I  think  that  each,  now,  is  attending  seriously 
to  his  own  special  work. 

ZOILUS.  How  much  longer  do  you  give  them,  to  reach 
their  highest  planes  of  performance  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  All  their  lives ;  and  I  refer  you  to 
Bryant,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  and  Whittier,  as  instances 
of  continuous  development.  If  our  American  atmosphere, 
as  you  said  the  other  night,  retards  the  growth  of  literary 
men,  you  cannot  deny  that  it  wonderfully  prolongs  the 
period  of  their  growth. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    145 

THE  GANNET.  Here  have  Galahad  and  myself  been 
waiting  with  our  manuscripts,  knowing  that  you  two  can 
never  agree,  but  hoping  that  each  might  exhaust  the 
other. 

ZOILUS.  This  from  you,  for  whom  there  is  neither 
time,  space,  nor  place,  when  you  get  fairly  started !  But 
who  are  you  now  ? 

THE  GANNET.  William  Winter,  at  your  service. 
(Reads.) 

LOVE'S  DIET. 

There  be  who  crave  the  flavors  rich 

Of  boneless  turkey  and  of  beef; 
There  be  who  seek  the  relish  which 

To  palsied  palates  brings  relief: 
But  I,  in  love's  most  patient  hush, 
Partake  with  thee  of  simple  mush. 

The  pheasant  seems  so  bright  of  wing, 
Because  't  is  wedded  with  expense; 

The  rarer  Strasburg  pasties  bring 
But  fleet  enjoyment  to  the  sense; 

Yet  common  things,  that  seem  too  nigh, 

Both  purse  arid  heart  may  satisfy. 

'T  is  sweet  to  browse  on  dishes  rare, 
When  those  who  give  them  can  afford : 

Sweeter  this  unpretending;  fare, 
"When  thou  art  seated  at  the  board, 

"With  spoony  fingers  to  unfold 

The  yielding  mush's  mass  of  gold. 

7  j 


146          DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB. 

Thou  pour'st  the  milk  that  whiter  seems 

Than  is  the  orbit  of  thy  brow, 
And  I  indulge  with  lamb-like  dreams, 

And  many  a  white  and  harmless  vow ; 
I  only  wish  that  there  could  be 
One  bowl,  not  two,  for  thee  and  me. 

ZOILTJS.     I  was  not  expecting  even  so  much  success. 

THE  GANNET.  Galahad  was  generous,  to  give  me  the 
lighter  task.  It  would  have  quite  bewildered  me  to  im 
itate  "  A  Woman's  Poems,"  because  their  chief  charac 
teristic  is  a  psychological  one.  If  we  had  taken  that 
wonderful  volume  of  the  songstresses  of  the  "  South- 
Land,'  '  now  — 

ZOILUS.  That  reminds  me  of  a  graceful  Southern 
singer,  who  is  like  a  bard  alone  in  the  desert,  —  Paul  H. 
Hayne.  Talk  of  our  lack  of  sympathy  and  encourage 
ment,  here,  in  New  York  !  What  mate  has  he,  for  hun 
dreds  of  miles  around  -him  ?  Why,  there  is  not  even  the 
challenge  of  a  rival  lance ;  lie  must  ride  around  the  lonely 
lists,  with  neither  antagonist  to  prove  his  mettle,  nor 
queen  to  crown  him  for  success. 

THE  ANCIENT.  An  author  must  have  an  audience, 
however  thin.  We  are  told  that  Poetry  is  its  own  ex 
ceeding  great  reward :  very  well :  but  what  if  you  sing 
your  song  into  the  air  and  never  find  it  again  in  the 
heart  of  a  friend  ?  Genius  without  sympathetic  recogni 
tion  is  like  a  kindled  fire  without  flue  or  draught;  it 
smoulders  miserably  away  instead  of  leaping,  sparkling, 
and  giving  cheer.  I  have  seen  some  parts  of  the  country 
where  a  man  of  sensitive,  poetical  nature  would  surely 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB.         147 

die,  if  he  could  not  escape.     We  ought  to  be  very  tender 
towards  all  honest  efforts  in  literature. 

GALAHAD.  The  "Woman"  whom  I  have  imitated 
needs  only  the  encounter  of  kind,  yet  positive  minds,  to 
give  her  dreams  what  they  still  lack,  —  a  distinct  reality. 
1  have  purposely  tried  to  exaggerate  her  principal  fault, 
for  it  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do.  (Reads) 


THE   PLASTER   CAST. 

The  white  thought  sleeps  in  it  enshrined, 

Though  mean  and  cheap  the  substance  seems, 

As  sleep  conceptions  in  the  mind, 
Hardened,  and  unreleased  by  dreams. 

A  parrot  only!  yet  the  child 

Stares  with  untutored,  dim  surprise, 
And  fain  would  know  what  secret  mild 

Is  ambushed  in  those  moveless  eyes. 

His  cherry  from  the  painted  beak 

Falls,  when  his  gentle  hand  would  give, 

So  early  some  return  we  seek 

From  that  which  only  seems  to  live. 

Ah,  let  us  even  these  symbols  guard, 
Nor  shatter  them  with  curious  touch ; 

For,  should  we  break  ideals  hard, 

The  fragments  would  not  move  us  much. 

ZOILUS.  You  have  fairly  bewildered  me,  Galahad.  I 
thought  there  was  an  actual  idea  in  the  verses,  but  it 
slips  from  my  hand  like  an  eel. 


148    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

THE  ANCIENT.  It  would  better  answer  for  the  trav 
esty  of  a  school  which  has  a  limited  popularity  at  present, 
but  to  which  "A  Woman"  does  not  belong. 

GALAHAD.     What  school  ?     I  know  of  none  such. 

THE  ANCIENT.  The  most  active  members  would  no 
doubt  be  much  astonished  if  I  were  to  tell  them  of  it ; 
but  it  is  a  kind  of  school,  nevertheless.  I  think  it  must 
have  originated  as  long  ago  as  the  days  of  The  Dial,  and 
has  not  yet  wholly  gone  out  of  fashion  with  a  rather  large 
class  of  readers.  You  will  find  plenty  of  specimens  in 
newspapers  of  a  mixed  religious  and  literary  character, 
and  now  and  then  in  the  magazines. 

THE  CHORUS.     Give  us  its  peculiarities. 

THE  ANCIENT.  First,  great  gravity,  if  not  solemnity 
of  tone  ;  a  rhythm,  sometimes  weak,  sometimes  hard,  but 
usually  halting ;  obscurity  and  incoherence  of  thought, 
and  a  perpetual  reference  to  abstract  morality. 

ZOILUS.     Don't  describe,  but  imitate. 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  could  give  you  a  stanza,  by  way  of 
illustration.  Furnish  me  with  a  subject,  — anything  you 
please.  (ZoiLUS  writes.)  The  Fifth  Wheel!  that  will 
answer;  for  the  poets  of  this  school  always  begin  far 
away  from  their  themes.  The  first  stanza  might  run 
thus : — 

From  sunshine  and  from  moral  truth 
Let  Life  be  woven  athwart  thy  breast ! 

The  rapid  cycles  of  thy  youth 
But  fetter  Duty's  solemn  quest. 

OMNES.    Go  on ! 

THE  ANCIENT.    Now  I  may  get  a  little  nearer  to 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB.        149 

the  subject,  though  I  don't  clearly  see  how.    (After  a 
pause.} 

Vibration  gives  but  faint  assent 

To  that  which  in  thee  seems  complete, 

But  time  evolves  the  Incident 

Behind  the  dust-driven  chariot's  feet. 

Be  well  provided  !     Overplus 

Is  Life's  stern  law,  none  can  evade ; 

Thon  to  the  goal  shalt  hasten  thus, 

When  selfish  natures'  wheels  are  stayed. 

ZOILUS.  Great  Jove  !  to  think  that  I  never  discovered 
the  undying  Laura  Matilda  in  this  prim  disguise  !  It  is 
the  languishing  creature  grown  older,  with  a  high-necked 
dress,  a  linen  collar,  and  all  her  curls  brushed  smooth ! 
Ancient,  you  have  purged  mine  eyes  from  visual  film; 
this  boon  wipes  out  all  remembrance  of  our  strife. 

OMNES.     Enough  for  to-night !  [Exeunt. 


NIGHT   THE   EIGHTH. 


(All  the  members  promptly  on  hand.} 

(HE  CHORUS.  How  much  does  any  author 
distinctly  know  of  himself,  or  the  quality  of 
his  works  ? 

ZOILUS.     Not  much. 

GALAHAD.    Everything ! 

THE  GANNET.  Only  what  makes  a  hit,  and  what 
does  n't. 

THE  ANCIENT.  It  depends  on  who  and  what  the 
author  is  :  you  will  find  both  extremes  represented. 

THE  CHORUS.     Yourselves,  for  instance  ! 

ZOILUS.  To  be  frank,  I  think  I  have  more  merit  than 
luck.  But  when  I  come  to  contrast  the  degrees  of 
popularity  with  the  character  of  the  performance,  I  am 
puzzled. 

GALAHAD.  Popularity  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I 
know  that  some  of  my  qualities  are  genuine,  while  other 
necessary  ones  are  weakly  represented.  Our  talk,  the 
last  night,  satislied  me  that  I  have  not  yet  found  the  one 
best  direction  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  one  dare  not  force 
one's  own  development,  and  I  think  I  see  whither  I  am 
tending. 


DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB.          151 

THE  GANNET.     Do  you  want  to  see  where  you  stand 
now,  or  very  nearly  the  spot  ? 
GALAHAD.     Show  me  if  you  can  ? 

(THE  GANNET  takes  a  sheet  of  paper  and  writes?) 

ZOILUS  (to  THE  ANCIENT).  Do  you  think  that  a  poet 
is  generally  a  correct  judge  of  his  own  works  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Please,  don't  repeat  that  dismal  plati 
tude  !  A  genuine  poet  is  always  the  best  judge  of  his 
own  works,  simply  because  he  has  an  ideal  standard  by 
which  he  measures  whatever  he  does.  He  may  not  be 
able  to  guess  what  will  be  most  popular ;  he  may  attach 
an  exorbitant  value  to  that  which  is  born  of  some  occult 
individual  mood,  in  which  few  others  can  ever  share  ;  but 
in  regard  to  the  quality  of  the  calm,  ripened  product  of 
his  brain  he  cannot  be  mistaken  !  To  admit  that  he  can 
be,  substitutes  chance  for  law  in  the  poetic  art,  and  brings 
us  down  to  the  vulgar  idea  of  a  wayward  and  accidental 
inspiration,  instead  of  conscious  growth  followed  by  con 
scious  achievement.  - 

ZOILUS.     You  astonish  me. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Then  be  glad;  it  is  a  sign  that  you 
are  not  poetically  blase. 

GALAHAD.     Never !     One  can  never  be  that. 

THE  GANNET.  Wait  till  you  hear  how  your  theorbo 
sounds  in  my  ears.  What  I  have  attempted  is  a  serious, 
not  a  comical,  echo  of  your  style. 

OMNES.     Give  it  to  us ! 

THE  GANNET.  Keep  Galahad's  hands  off  me  till  I 
have  finished.  (Reads.) 


152          DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 


THE   TWO   LIVES. 

Down  in  the  dell  I  wandered, 

The  loneliest  of  our  dells, 
Where  grow  the  lowland  lilies, 

Dropping  their  foam-white  bells, 
And  the  brook  among  the  grasses 

Toys  with  its  sand  and  shells. 

Fair  were  the  meads  and  thickets, 
And  sumptuous  grew  the  trees, 

And  the  folding  hills  of  harvest 

Were  lulled  with  the  fanning  breeze, 

But  I  heard,  beyond  the  valley, 
The  roar  of  the  plunging  seas. 

The  birds  and  the  vernal  grasses, 
They  wooed  me  sweetly  and  long, 

But  the  magic  of  ocean  called  me, 
Murmuring  vast  and  strong; 

Here  was  the  flute-like  cadence, 
There  was  the  world-wide  song! 

"  Lie  in  the  wood's  embraces, 
Sleep  in  the  dell's  repose !  " 

"  Float  on  the  limitless  azure, 
Flecked  with  its  foamy  snows!  " 

Such  were  the  changing  voices, 
Heard  at  the  twilight's  close. 

Free  with  the  winds  and  waters, 
Nestled  in  shade  and  dew : 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB.         153 

Bliss  in  the  soft  green  shelter, 

Fame  on  the  boundless  blue ; 
Which  shall  I  yield  forever? 

"Which  forever  pursue  ? 

OMNES  (clapping  their  hands).     Galahad!  Galahad! 

GALAHAD  (with  a  melancholy  air).  It  is  worse  than 
the  most  savage  criticism.  There  is  just  enough  of  my 
own  sentiment  and  poetical  manner  in  it,  to  show  me  how 
monstrously  blind  I  have  been  in  not  perceiving  that 
scores  of  clever  fellows  may  write  the  same  things,  if 
they  should  choose.  I  ought  to  relapse  into  the  corner 
of  a  country  newspaper. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Take  heart,  my  dear  boy !  We  all 
begin  with  sentiment  and  melodious  rhythm,  —  or  what 
seems  to  us  to  be  such.  We  all  discover  the  same  old 
metaphors  over  again,  and  they  are  as  new  to  us  as  if 
they  had  never  been  used  before.  Very  few  young  poets 
have  the  slightest  presentiment  of  their  coming  develop 
ment.  They  have  the  keenest  delight,  the  profoundest 
satisfaction,  with  their  crudest  works.  With  knowledge 
comes  the  sense  of  imperfection,  which  increases  as  they 
rise  in  performance.  Remember  that  the  Gannet  is  five 
or  six  years  older  than  you,  and  can  now  write  in  cold 
blood  what  only  comes  from  the  summer  heat  of  your 
mind. 

GALAHAD.  I  understand  you,  and  don't  mean  to  be 
discouraged.  But  Zoilus  is  fully  avenged  now. 

ZOILUS.  I  '11  prove  it  by  my  notice  of  your  next  poem 

in  the  .  Let  us  turn  to  our  remaining  models. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  them  at  home,  they  have 
7* 


154    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

all  made  a  very  positive  impression  in  England  ;  how  do 
you  account  for  it,  Ancient  ? 

THE  ANCIENT.  I  can  only  guess  at  an  explanation, 
apart  from  the  merits  which  three  of  them  certainly  pos 
sess.  While  the  average  literary  culture  in  England  was 
perhaps  never  so  high  as  now,  the  prevalent  style  of  writ 
ing  was  never  so  conventional.  The  sensational  school, 
which  has  been  so  popular  here  as  well  as  there,  is  begin 
ning  to  fatigue  the  majority  of  readers,  yet  it  still  spoils 
their  enjoyment  of  simple,  honest  work  ;  so,  every  new 
appearance  in  literature,  which  is  racy,  which  carries  the 
flavor  of  a  fresh  soil  with  it,  unconventional  yet  seemingly 
natural,  neither  suggesting  the  superficial  refinement  of 
which  they  are  surfeited  nor  the  nobler  refinement  which 
they  have  forgotten  how  to  relish,  —  all  such  appearances, 
I  suspect,  furnish  just  the  change  they  crave. 

THE  GANNET.  But  the  changes  of  popular  taste  in  the 
two  countries  are  very  similar.  This  is  evident  in  the 
cases  of  Bret  Harte  and  Hay ;  but  Walt  Whitman  seems 
to  have  a  large  circle  of  enthusiastic  admirers  in  England, 
and  only  some  half-dozen  disciples  among  us.  Do  you 
suppose  that  the  passages  of  his  "Leaves  of  Grass," 
which  are  prose  catalogues  to  us,  or  the  phrases  which 
are  our  slang,  have  a  kind  of  poetical  charm  there,  be 
cause  they  are  not  understood  ? 

ZOILUS.  As  Tartar  or  Mongolian  "Leaves  of  Grass  " 
might  have  to  us  ?  Very  likely.  There  are  splendid  lines 
and  brief  passages  in  Walt  Whitman :  there  is  a  modern, 
half-Bowery -boy,  half-Emersonian  apprehensioirof  the  old 
Greek  idea  of  physical  life,  which  many  take  to  be 'wholly 
new  on  account  of  the  singular  form  in  which  it  is  pre- 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.         155 

sented.  I  will  even  admit  that  the  elements  of  a  fine 
poet  exist  in  him,  in  a  state  of  chaos.  It  is  curious  that 
while  he  proclaims  his  human  sympathies  to  be  without 
bounds,  his  intellectual  sympathies  should  be  so  narrow. 
There  never  was  a  man  at  once  so  arrogant,  and  so  ten 
der  towards  his  fellow-men. 

THE  ANCIENT.  You  have  very  correctly  described  him. 
The  same  art  which  he  despises  would  have  increased  his 
power  and  influence.  He  forgets  that  the  poet  must  not 
only  have  somewhat  to  say,  but  must  strenuously  acquire 
the  power  of  saying  it  most  purely  and  completely.  A 
truer  sense  of  art  would  have  prevented  that  fault  which 
has  been  called  immorality,  but  is  only  a  coarse,  offensive 
frankness. 

THE  GANNET.  Let  us  divide  our  labors.  There  is 
only  one  name  apiece  :  how  shall  we  apportion  them  ? 

ZOILUS.  Take  Joaquin  Miller,  and  give  Walt  Whit 
man  to  the  Ancient.  Choose  of  these  tw^o,  Galahad ! 

GALAHAD  (opening  the  paper).     Bret  Harte. 

ZOILUS.     Then  Hay  remains  to  me. 

(The//  all  write  steadily  for  half  an  hour.) 

THE  GANNET.  Our  last  is  our  most  difficult  task  ;  for 
we  have  to  give  the  local  flavor  of  the  poetry,  as  well  as 
its  peculiar  form  and  tone. 

ZOILUS.  I  should  like  to  know  how  much  of  that  local 
flavor  is  genuine.  I  am  suspicious  of  Bret  Harte's  Cali 
fornia  dialect :  some  features  of  it  are  evidently  English, 
and  very  suggestive  of  Dickens.  Hay's  is  nearer  the  real 
thing.  Miller's  scenery  and  accessories  also  inspire  me 
with  doubt.  Now,  much  of  the  value  of  this  genre  poetry 
(as  I  should  call  it)  depends  upon  its  fidelity  to  nature. 


156          DIVERSIONS    OF    THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

Sham  slang  and  sham  barbarism  are  worse  than  sham 
refinement  and  luxury. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Harte's  use  of  "  which  "  as  an  exple 
tive  is  certainly  an  English  peculiarity,  which  he  may  have 
heard  it  m  some  individual  miner,  but  which  it  is  not  a 
feature  of  California  slang.  So,  when  Higgles  says  "  0, 
if  you  please,  I'm  Higgles,"  it  is  an  English  girl  who 
speaks.  Aside  from  a  few  little  details  of  this  kind, 
Harte's  sketches  and  poems  are  truly  and  admirably  col 
ored.  He  deserves  his  success,  for  he  has  separated  him 
self  by  a  broad  gulf  from  all  the  literary  buffoonery  of  this 
day,  which  is  sometimes  grotesque  and  always  inane. 
But  he  is  picturesque,  and  the  coarsest  humor  of  his  char 
acters  rests  on  a  pure  human  pathos. 

GALAHAD.  Somehow,  the  use  of  a  vulgar  dialect  in 
poetry  is  always  unpleasant  to  me ;  it  is  like  a  grinning 
mask  over  a  beautiful  face.  And  yet,  how  charming  is 
"  'Zekel's  Courtship  "  ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Lowell  has  done  all  that  is  possible 
with  the  New  England  dialect.  He  has  now  and  then 
steeped  it  in  an  odor  of  poetry  which  it  never  before 
exhaled  and  perhaps  never  may  again.  Compare  it,  for 
instance,  with  the  Scotch  of  Burns,  where  every  elision 
makes  the  word  sweeter  on  the  tongue,  and  where  the 
words  which  are  its  special  property  are  nearly  always 
musical.  The  New  England  changes  are  generally  on  the 
side  of  roughness  and  clumsiness.  With  becomes  an  ugly 
9th,  instead  of  the  soft  Scotch  wF ;  have  hardens  into  hev, 
instead  of  flowing  into  hae ;  and  got  coarsens  into  gut, 
instead  of  the  quaint  sharpness  of  gat.  It  is  the  very  op 
posite  of  the  mellow  broadness  of  the  Scotch ;  it  sacrifices 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    157 

the  vowels  and  aggravates  the  consonants ;  its  raciest 
qualities  hint  of  prevarication  and  noncomrnital,  and  its 
sentiment  is  grotesque  even  when  it  is  frank  and  touch 
ing.  Yet  Lowell's  genius  sometimes  so  completely  trans 
figures  this  harsh  material,  that  one's  ear  forgets  it  and 
hears  only  the  finer  music  of  his  thought. 

ZOILUS.  Shall  we  read  ?  I  suggest  that  we  take  the 
authors,  to-night,  in  the  order  of  their  appearance.  Walt 
Whitman  leads. 

THE  ANCIENT.     (Reads.} 

CAMERADOS. 

Everywhere,  everywhere,  following  me ; 

Taking  me  by  the  buttonhole,  pulling  off  rny  boots,  hustling  me 
with  the  elbows ; 

Sitting  down  with  me  to  clams  and  the  chowder-kettle  ; 

Plunging  naked  at  my  side  into  the  sleek,  irascible  surges ; 

Soothing  me  with  the  strain  that  I  neither  permit  nor  prohibit ; 

Flocking  this  way  and  that,  reverent,  eager,  orotund,  irrepres 
sible  ; 

Denser  than  sycamore  leaves  when  the  north-winds  are  scour 
ing  Paumanok ; 

What  can  I  do  to  restrain  them  ?     Nothing,  verily  nothing. 

Everywhere,  everywhere,  crying'  aloud  for  me ; 

Crying,  I  hear;  and  1  satisfy  them  out  of  my  nature; 

And  he  that  comes  at  the  end  of  the  feast  shall  find  something 
over. 

"Whatever  they  want  I  give ;  though  it  be  something  else,  they 
shall  have  it. 

Drunkard,  leper,  Tammanyite,  small-pox 
shoddy,  and  codfish  millionnaire, 

'  UNIVERSITY 


158    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

And  the  beautiful  young  men,  and  the  beautiful  young  women, 

all  the  same, 

Crowding,  hundreds  of  thousands,  cosmical  multitudes, 
Buss  me  and  hang  on  my  hips  and  lean  up  to  my  shoulders, 
Everywhere  listening   to   my  yawp  and  glad  whenever  they 

hear  it ; 

Everywhere  saying,  say  it,  Walt,  we  believe  it : 
Everywhere,  everywhere. 

ZOILTJS.  By  Jove,  Ancient !  you  could  soon  develop 
into  a  Kosmos. 

THE  ANCIENT.  It  would  not  be  difficult,  so  far  as  the 
form  is  concerned.  The  immortal  Tupper,  in  his  rivalry 
with  Solomon,  substituted  semi-rhythmical  prose  lines 
for  verse ;  but  Walt,  being  thoroughly  in  earnest,  often 
makes  his  lines  wholly  rhythmical.  I  confess  I  enjoy  his 
decameters  and  liecatameters. 

THE  CHORUS.  Bret  Harte  was  the  next  appearance, 
after  a  very  long  interval.  You  will  have  to  do  your 
best,  Galahad. 

GALAHAD.  A  superficial  imitation  is  easy  enough,  but 
I  shall  certainly  fail  to  reproduce  his  subtile  wit  and 
pathos.  (Reads.) 

TRUTHFUL  JAMES'S   SONG   OF   THE   SHIRT. 

"Which  his  name  it  was  Sam  ; 

He  had  sluiced  for  a  while 
Up  at  Murderer's  Dam, 

Till  he  got  a  good  pile, 
And  the  heft  of  each  dollar, 

Two  thousand  or  more, 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO   CLUB.         159 

He'  d  put  in  the  Chollar, 
For  he  seed  it  was  ore 
That  runs  thick  up  and  down,  without  ceilin'  or  floor. 

And,  says  he,  it 's  a  game 

That 's  got  but  one  stake ; 
If  I  put  up  that  same, 
.    It  '11  bust  me  or  make. 
At  fifty  the  foot 

I  've  entered  my  pile, 
And  the  whole  denied  cahoot 

I  '11  let  soak  for  a  while, 
And  jest  loaf  around  here,  — say,  Jim,  will  you  smile  ? 

Tom  Fakes  was  the  chum, 

Down  in  Frisco,  of  Sam  ; 
And  one  mornin'  there  come 

This  here  telegram : 
"  You  can  sell  for  five  hundred, 

Come  down  by  the  train !  " 
Sam  By-Joed  and  By-Thundered,  — 

JT  was  whistlin'  quite  plain, 
And  down  to  Dutch  Flat  rushed  with  might  and  with  main. 

He  had  no  time  to  sarch, 

But  he  grabbed  up  a  shirt 
That  showed  bilin'  and  starch, 

And  a  coat  with  less  dirt. 
He  jumped  on  the  step 

As  the  train  shoved  away, 
And  likewise  was  swep', 

All  galliant  and  gay, 
Round  the  edge  of  the  mounting  and  down  to'rds  the  Bay. 

Seven  minutes,  to  pass 

Through  the  hole  by  the  Flat ! 


160  DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB. 

Says  he,  I  'm  an  ass 

If  I  can't  shift  in  that ! 
But  the  train  behind  time, 

Only  three  was  enough,  — 
It  came  pat  as  a  rhyme  — 

He  was  stripped  to  the  huff 
When  they  jumped  from  the  tunnel  to  daylight !     'T  was  rough. 

What  else  ?     Here  's  to  you ! 

Which  he  sold  of  his  feet 
At  five  hundred,  't  is  true, 

And  the  same  I  repeat : 
But  acquaintances,  friends, 

They  likes  to  divert, 
And  the  tale  never  ends 

Of  Sam  and  his  shirt, 
And  to  stop  it  from  goin'  he  'd  give  all  his  dirt! 

ZOILTJS.  You  were  right  to  take  a  merely  comical  inci 
dent.  You  could  n't  possibly  have  echoed  the  strong 
feeling  which  underlies  the  surface  slang  of  such  a  poem 
as  "  Jim,"  which  I  consider  Harte's  masterpiece  in  his 
special  vein. 

GALAHAD.  He  never  could  have  written  that  if  lie 
had  been  only  a  humorist.  His  later  work  shows  that 
he  is  a  genuine  poet. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Yes,  that  special  vein  is  like  many  in 
the  Nevada  mines,  rich  on  the  surface,  narrowing  as  it 
goes  down,  pinched  off  by  the  primitive  strata,  opening 
again  unexpectedly  into  a  pocket,  but  never  to  be  fully 
depended  upon.  Harte's  instincts  are  too  true  not  to  see 
this  :  I  believe  he  will  do  still  better,  and  therefore  prob 
ably  less  popular  work. 


DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB.    161 

THE  GANNET.  Now,  Zoilus,  give  us  Hay,  and  let  me 
close  with  a  war-whoop  ! 

ZOILUS.  I  'm  not  quite  sure  of  my  Pike  dialect,  but  I 
fancy  the  tone  is  rough  enough  to  satisfy  you.  (Reads.} 


BIG  BILL. 

There  's  them  that  eats  till  they  're  bustin', 

And  them  that  drinks  till  they  're  blind, 
And  them  that 's  snufflin'  and  spooney, 

But  the  best  of  all,  to  my  mind, 
(And  I  've  been  around  in  my  time,  boys, 

And  cavorted  with  any  you  like,) 
Was  Big  Bill,  that  lived  in  the  slashes, 

We  called  him  Big  Bill  o'  Pike. 

If  he  put  his  hand  to  his  bowie 

Or  scratched  the  scruff  of  his  neck, 
You  could  only  tell  by  waitin' 

To  see  if  you  bled  a  peck : 
And  the  way  he  fired,  't  was  lovely ! 

Nobody  knowed  which  was  dead, 
Till  Big  Bill  grinned,  and  the  stiff  'un 

Tumbled  over  onto  his  head ! 

At  school  he  killed  his  master ; 

Courtin',  he  killed  seven  more : 
And  the  hearse  was  always  a-waitin* 

A  little  ways  from  his  door. 
There  was  n't  much  growth  in  the  county, 

As  the  census  returns  will  show, 
But  we  had  Big  Bill  we  was  proud  of, 

And  that  was  enough  to  grow. 

K 


162    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

And  now  Big  Bill  is  an  angel,  — 

Damn  me,  it  makes  me  cry  ! 
Jist  when  he  was  rampin'  the  roughest, 

The  poor  fellow  had  to  die. 
A  thievin'  and  sneakin'  Yankee 

Got  the  start  on  our  blessed  Bill, 
And  there  's  no  one  to  do  our  killin* 

And  nobody  left  to  kill ! 

ZOILUS.  Hay's  realism,  in  those  ballads,  is  of  the 
grimmest  kind.  It  is  like  the  old  Dance  of  Death,  in 
a  new  form.  I  have  been  greatly  amused  by  the  actual 
fury  which  his  "  Little  Breeches "  and  "  Jim  Bludso  " 
have  aroused  in  some  sectarian  quarters.  To  read  the 
attacks,  one  would  suppose  that  Christianity  was  threat 
ened  by  the  declaration  that  angels  may  interpose  to  save 
children,  or  that  a  man,  ignorant  or  regardless  of  ordi 
nary  morality,  may  redeem  his  soul  by  the  noblest  sacri 
fice.  Really,  it  seems  to  me,  that  to  diminish  the  range 
of  individual  damnation  renders  many  good  people  un- 
Lappy. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Hay  has  made  his  name  known  in 
the  most  legitimate  way,  —  by  representing  phenomena 
of  common  Western  life  which  he  has  observed.  He 
might  have  faintly  echoed  Shelley  or  Tennyson  for  a 
decade,  and  Accomplished  nothing.  Those  ballads  are 
not,  strictly  speaking,  poetry ;  but  it  is  impossible  that 
they  should  not  give  him  a  tendency  to  base  his  better 
poems  on  the  realities  of  our  American  life. 

THE  CHOIIUS.     Let  us  hear  the  Gannet's  war-whoop  ! 

THE  GANNET.  There  is  nothing  easier  than  to  exag 
gerate  exaggeration.  (Reads.) 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE   ECHO    CLUB.         163 


THE   FATE   OF  THE   FRONTIERSMAN. 

That  whiskey -jug !     For,  dry  or  wet, 
My  tale  will  need  its  help,  you  bet ! 

We  made  for  the  desert,  she  and  I, 

Though  life  was  loathsome,  and  love  a  lie, 

And  she  gazed  on  me  with  her  glorious  eye, 

But  all  the  same,  —  I  let  her  die ! 

For  why  ?  —  there  was  barely  water  for  one 

In  the  small  canteen,  and  of  provender,  none  ! 

A  splendid  snake,  with  an  emerald  scale, 

Slid  before  us  along  the  trail, 

With  a  famished  parrot  pecking  its  head ; 

And,  seizing  a  huge  and  dark  brown  rock 

In  her  dark  brown  hands,  as  you  crush  a  crock, 

With  the  dark  brown  rock  she  crushed  it  dead. 

But  ere  her  teeth  in  its  flesh  could  meet, 

I  laid  her  as  dead  as  the  snake  at  my  feet, 

And  grabbed  the  snake  for  myself  to  eat. 

The  plain  stretched  wide,  from  side  to  side, 

As  bare  and  blistered  and  cracked  and  dried 

As  a  moccasin  sole  of  buffalo  hide, 

And  my  throat  grew  hot,  as  I  walked  the  trail, 

My  blood  in  a  sizzle,  my  muscles  dry, 

A  crimson  glare  in  my  glorious  eye, 

And  I  felt  my  sinews  wither  and  fail, 

Like  one  who  has  lavished,  for  fifty  nights, 

His  pile  in  a  hell  of  gambling  delights, 

And  is  kicked  at  dawn  from  bottle  and  bed, 

And  sent  to  the  gidches  without  a  red. 


164          DIVERSIONS   OF   THE   ECHO   CLUB. 

There  was  no  penguin  to  pick  or  pluck, 

No  armadillo's  throat  to  be  stuck, 

Not  even  a  bilberry's  ball  of  blue 

To  slush  my  tongue  with  its  indigo  dew, 

And  the  dry  brown  palm-trees  rattled  and  roared 

Like  the  swish  and  swizzle  of  Walker's  sword. 

I  was  nigh  rubbed  out ;  when,  far  away, 

A  shanty  baked  in  the  furnace  of  day, 

And  I  petered  on,  for  an  hour  or  more, 

Till  I  dropped,  like  a  mangy  hound,  at  the  door. 

No  soul  to  be  seen  ;  but  a  basin  stood 

On  the  bench,  with  a  mess  of  dubious  food, 

Stringy  and  doughy  and  lumpy  and  thick, 

As  the  clay  ere  flame  has-  turned  it  to  brick. 

I  gobbled  it  up  with  a  furious  fire, 

A  prairie  squall  of  hungry  desire, 

And  strength  came  back  ;  when,  lo  !  a  scream 

Closed  my  stomach  and  burst  my  dream. 

She  stood  before  me,  as  lithe  and  tall 

As  a  musqueet-bush  on  the  Pimos  wall, 

Fierce  as  the  Zuhi  panther's  leap, 

Fair  as  the  slim  Apache  sheep. 

A  lariat  draped  her  broad  brown  hips, 

As  she  stood  and  glared  with  parted  lips, 

While  piercing  stitches  and  maddening  shoots 

Ran  through  my  body,  from  brain  to  boots. 

I  would  have  clasped  her,  but,  ere  I  could, 

She  flung  back  her  hair's  tempestuous  hood, 

And  screamed,  in  a  voice  like  a  tiger-cat's : 

"  You  've  gone  and  ett  up  my  pizen  for  rats  !  " 

My  blood  grew  limp  and  my  hair  grew  hard 

As  the  steely  tail  of  the  desert  pard : 


DIVERSIONS   OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.         165 

I  sank  at  her  feet,  convulsed  and  pale, 
And  kissed  in  anguish  her  brown  toe-nail. 
You  may  rip  the  cloud  from  the  frescoed  sky, 
Or  tear  the  man  from  his  place  in  the  moon, 
Fur  from  the  buzzard  and  plumes  from  the  coon, 
But  you  can't  tear  rne  from  the  truth  I  cry, 
That  life  is  loathsome  and  love  a  lie. 
She  lifted  me  up  to  her  bare  brown  face, 
She  cracked  my  ribs  in  her  brown  embrace, 
And  there  in  the  shanty,  side  by  side, 
Each  on  the  other's  bosom  died. 

She  's  now  the  mistress  of  Buffalo  Bill, 
And  pure  as  the  heart  of  a  lily  still ; 

While  I  've  killed  all  who  have  cared  for  me. 

» 

And  I  'm  just  as  lonely  as  I  can  be, 

So,  pass  the  whiskey,  —  we  '11  have  a  spree  I 

OMNES.     The  real  thing ! 

ZOILTJS.  You've  beaten  us  all,  but  no  wonder! 
Much  of  Joaquin  Miller's  verse  is  itself  a  travesty  of 
poetry.  Ancient,  you  talk  about  high  ideals  of  literary 
art,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing:  can  you  tell  me  what 
Rossetti  and  the  rest  of  the  English  critics  mean,  in 
hailing  this  man  as  the  great  American  poet? 

THE  ANCIENT.  One  thing,  of  course,  they  cannot 
see, — the  thorough  spuriousness  of  his  characters,  with 
their  costumes,  scenery,  and  all  other  accessories.  Why, 
he  takes  Lara  and  the  Giaour,  puts  them  in  a  fantastic, 
impossible  country  called  "  Arizona  "  or  "  California,"  and 
describes  them  with  a  rhythm  borrowed  from  Swinburne 
and  a  frenzy  all  his  own,  —  and  we  are  called  upon  to 


166    DIVERSIONS  OF  THE  ECHO  CLUB. 

accept  tins  as  something  original  and  grand  !  The  amazed 
admiration  of  a  class  in  England,  and  the  gushing  grati 
tude  of  one  in  America,  form,  together,  a  spectacle  over 
which  the  pure,  serene  gods  must  bend  in  convulsions  of 
inextinguishable  laughter. 

ZOILUS.  Give  me  your  hand !  As  Thackeray  said,  let 
us  swear  eternal  friendship !  You  have  often  provoked 
me  by  persistently  mollifying  my  judgments  of  authors; 
but,  if  you  had  done  so  in  this  case,  I  could  not  have 
forgiven  you.  Joaquin  Miller,  and  he  alone,  would  prgve 
the  decadence  of  our  literature  :  he  is  an  Indianized  copy 
of  Byron,  made  up  of  shrieks  and  war-paint,  and  the  life 
he  describes  is  too  brutal,  selfish,  and  insane  ever  to  have 
existed  anywhere.  A  few  fine  lines  or  couplets,  or  an 
occasional  glittering  bit  of  description,  are  not  enough  to " 
make  him  a  genius,  or  even  an  unusual  talent. 

THE  GANNET.  But  the  material  —  not  his,  the  true, 
Arizonian  material  — is  good,  and  he  has  shown  shrewd 
ness  in  selecting  it.  He  is  clever,  in  some  ways,  or  he 
never  could  have  made  so  much  capital  in  England.  His 
temporary  success  here  is  only  an  echo  of  his  success  there. 

ZOILUS.  If  he  were  a  young  fellow  of  twenty,  I 
should  say,  wait;  but  his  is  not  the  exaggeration  of 
youth,  it  is  the  affectation  of  manhood. 

GALAHAD.  If  anybody  ever  seriously  said,  "Alas!" 
I  should  say  it  now.  I  have  picked  up  many  a  grain  of 
good  counsel  in  the  midst  of  our  fun,  and  the  fun  itself 
has  become  an  agreeable  stimulus  which  I  shall  miss. 
We  must  not  give  up  our  habit  wholly. 

ZOILUS.  There  is  no  end  of  intellectual  and  poetic 
gymnastics,  which  we  may  try.  I  propose  that  we  close 


DIVERSIONS    OF   THE    ECHO    CLUB.          167 

with  a  grand  satirical  American  "  Walpurgis-Night," 
modelled  on  Goethe's  Intermezzo  in  Faust. 

THE  GANNET.  That  is  a  good  idea,  but  how  shall  we 
carry  it  out  ? 

ZOILUS.  Let  each  write  a  stanza  or  two,  satirizing 
some  literary  school,  author,  magazine,  or  newspaper, 
throw  it  into  the  hat,  and  then  take  another,  as  long  as 
we  can  keep  up  the  game.  When  all  are  exhausted,  give 
the  hat  to  the  Ancient  and  let  him  read  the  whole  collec 
tion  of  squibs,  in  the  order  in  which  they  turn  up. 

OMNES  (eagerly).     Accepted! 

[Here,  I  am  compelled  to  state,  my  liberty  as  a  reporter 
ceases.  The  plan  was  carried  out,  and  1  think  it  was  not 
entirely  unsuccessful.  But  our  mirth  was  partly  at  the 
expense  of  others :  many  of  the  stanzas  were  only  lively 
and  good-humored,  but  many  others  thrust  out  a  sharp 
sting  in  the  last  line.  As  I  was  not  an  accomplice,  I  was 
perfectly  willing  that  they  should  all  be  given  to  the 
public.  Zo'ilus  did  not  seriously  object;  but  the  other 
three  were  peremptory  in  their  prohibition.  Even  the 
Gannet  confessed  that  he  was  not  courageous  enough  to 
run  the  risk  of  making  half  a  dozen  permanent  enemies 
by  shafts  of  four  lines  apiece :  he  knew  how  largely  the 
element  of  personal  profit  and  reputation  enters  into 
American  literary  life,  and  how  touchy  a  sensitiveness  it 
develops.  There  was  no  denying  this,  for  they  related 
many  instances  to  prove  it.  I  yielded,  of  course,  although 
it  was  a  disappointment  to  me.  After  having  thus  en 
tered  authorship  by  a  side-door,  as  it  were,  I  find  the 
field  very  pleasant ;  and  I  withdraw  now,  since  there  is 
no  alternative,  with  reluctance.  —  THE  NAMELESS  RE-I. 
PORTER.] 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BAEDS. 


[AT  the  opening  of  the  Fair  of  the  American  Institute,  in 
New  York,  on  the  7th  of  September,  1871,  an  original  poem 
of  some  length  was  recited  by  Walt  Whitman.  At  that  time 
Bret  Harte's  and  Colonel  John  Hay's  admirable  dialect  ballads 
were  read  by  everybody,  and  the  sudden  popularity  which 
Joaquin  Miller  had  obtained  in  England,  a  few  months  pre 
vious,  made  him  the  subject  of  much  newspaper  remark.  The 
fact  that  these  four  authors,  notwithstanding  the  very  different 
quality  of  their  work,  were  then  specially  prominent  in  public 
interest,  suggested  travesties  which  should  represent  them  as 
rivals,  each  claiming  ascendency  over  the  others.  The  greater 
part  of  Walt  Whitman's  production  was  published  in  the  "  New 
York  Tribune  "  on  the  8th  of  September,  in  the  report  of  the 
opening  of  the  Fair;  and  on  the  same  day,  the  four  following 
imitations,  without  the  connecting  prose  passages,  were  sent  to 
that  paper.  The  latter  were  added  by  the  editor  then  in  charge, 
and  probably  contributed  even  more  to  the  amusement  of  the 
public  than  the  poems  themselves.  The  rare  liberality  —  nay,  in 
a  literary  sense,  generosity — which  the  editor  exhibited  would  be 
universally  appreciated,  if  it  were  proper  to  mention  his  name.] 

E  have  never  regretted  so  much  as  yesterday 
the  limited  capacity  of  our  eight  pages  which 
compelled  us  to  omit  some  portions  of  Mr. 
Whitman's  remarkable  poem.  It  was  perhaps 
the  most  remarkable  which  has  ever  been  delivered  before 
an  Industrial  Assembly,  and  we  are  assured  by  the  offi- 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BAUDS.      169 

cers  of  the  Signal  Service  that  it  is  not  probable  that  an 
other  such  disturbance  of  the  elerhents  will  take  place  this 
century.  It  is  this  consideration  which  induces  us  to 
print  the  following  choice  extract  which  was  yesterday 
ransomed,  at  great  expense,  from  the  hands  of  the  Celtic 
lady  who  sweeps  out  the  office.  The  Night  Editor  lias 
been  severely  censured  for  slaughtering  this  exquisite 
morceau,  and  compared  to  the  base  Judean  who  threw  a 
pearl  away  richer  than  all  his  agate. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

Who  was  it  sang  of  the  procreant  urge,  recounted  sextillions  of 

subjects  ? 
Who  but  myself,  the  Kosmos,  yawping  abroad,  concerned  not 

at  all  about  either  the  effect  or  the  answer ; 
Straddling  the  Continent,  gathering  into  my  hairy  bosom  the 

growths,  whatever   they  were,    and  nothing  slighted, 

nothing  forgotten  ? 
Allezl  I  am  the  One,  the  only  One,  and  this  is  my  Chant 

Democratic]  ue. 
Where  is  he  that  heard  not,  and  she  that  heard  not,  and  they 

that  heard  not,  before  and  during  and  after  ? 
All  is  wholesome  and  clean,  and  all  is  the  effluent  strain,  impec 
cable,  sweet,  of  the  clasper  of  comrades. 
If  there  were  anything  else,  I  would  sing  it ; 
But  there  is  nothing,  no  jot  or  tittle,  or  least  little  scraping  of 

subject  or  matter : 
No,  there  is  nothing  at  all,  and  all  of  you  know  it. 

[We  make  room  for  further  portions  of  our  report  of  the 
opening  of  the  Institute,  which  were  crowded  out  yesterday.] 
8 


170      THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 

When  Mr.  Whitman's  voice  had  died  away  among  the 
patent  pumps  and  corn-cutters  which  cumbered  the  vast 
amphitheatre,  a  slight  but  elegantly  formed  gentleman 
lounged  forward  from  among  the  re  frige  rat  ors,  and  said 
in  a  voice  of  singular  sweetness,  — 

"Air  this  a  free  fight?" 

His  face  was  the  face  of  Raphael  and  his  boots  were 
the  boots  of  Cinderella.  His  black  curls  fell  damply  over 
a  high,  pale  brow,  but  were  not  materially  injured  by  the 
fall.  An  enormous  diamond,  the  dying  gift  of  Pinky  the 
Bilk,  whom  he  had  tenderly  shot  in  church  one  day  at 
Sandy  Bar  for  being  a  half-second  out  of  time  on  the 
Amens,  glittered  on  his  lady-like  finger.  By  one  of  those 
cynical  contrasts  of  the  frontier,  his  garb  was  by  Poole, 
but  his  mustache  was  dyed  by  Day  and  Martin. 

"I've  heerd,"  he  continued,  putting  his  hand  behind 
his  hip,  "that  this  was  a  trial  trip  of  song-sharps.  Ef  so, 
I  '11  jest  chip  in.  I  'm  from  Roaring  Camp,  near  Skunk's 
Misery,  and  my  name  is  —  well,  you  know  that,  if  you 
know  anything."  He  read  with  exquisite  expression  the 
following :  — 

Who  ?     Well  —  comin'  so  suddcnt, 

I  'm  hardly  ready  to  say. 
I  know :  but  I  'd  rather  you  would  n't 

Put  it  to  me  just  that  way. 
Not  that  my  stripe  is  modest ; 

That  was  rubbed  off  long  ago  : 
And  I  have  been  questioned  the  oddest 

And  I  'm  not  altogether  slow. 

Come,  —  set  up  to  this  here  table ! 
You !  —  bring  us  two  more  beers  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS.      171 

Could  n't  I  put  it  as  a  fable, 

Sich  as  a  boy  often  hears  ? 
You  know  every  gard'ner  mulches 

Round  some  partic'lar  tree : 
Men  read,  in  the  deepest  gulches, 

And  so  — they  've  found  out  me  ! 

'T  was  cuttin'  a  queer  sort  o'  capers, 

So  the  folks  out  there  said ; 
But  I  ask  you  to  look  in  the  papers, 

And  see  what  stuff 's  most  read. 
Why,  Jim,  the  very  way  I  met  you 

People  knows,  far  and  near,  — 
Knows  from  my  tellin',  —  and  yet  you 

Ask  me  who 's  first !     It 's  queer. 

Hang  it !  what 's  the  use  o'  beatin' 

Round  the  bush  in  this  here  way  ? 
And  you  doin'  all  the  treatin', 

And  me  with  nothing  to  say  ! 
Here 's  to  us  !  —  this  way  I  can  show  it, 

If  you  have  n't  already  guessed  : 
We  're  drinkin'  the  health  o'  the  poet 

That 's  flattened  out  all  the  rest ! 

Here  a  long,  lank,  farmer-looking  man,  with  travel- 
stained  garments  of  Kentucky  jeans,  a  weather-beaten 
face,  rough  with  two  days  of  grizzled  beard,  enormous 
brown  hands  and  wrists  protruding  from  the  short  coat- 
sleeves,  and  a  general  air  of  melancholy  and  tobacco 
about  him,  came  slouching  up  to  the  platform,  and  taking 
off  his  tattered  fur  cap,  said  to  the  President,  — 

"  Good  morning,  Jedge  !     I  drapped  in  to  take  a  hand 


172      THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 

'long  oj  the  other  poets,  but  ef  ye  ain't  got  no  better  stock 
nor  this,  I  reckon  I  '11  skeet  back  to  Spunky  Pint.  Why, 
Jedge  !  my  little  Gabe  —  lie's  at  school  at  Hell's  Bend 
in  Magoopin  Co.  —  dogg  on  my  skin  ef  he  can't  sing  the 
socks  off 'n  that  thar  little  Gambolier." 

"  Confine  yourself  to  your  own  poetry,"  said  the  chair 
man,  austerely ;  and  the  Pike  sadly  shook  the  hay-seed 
from  his  long  iron-gray  hair,  and  read  these  rhymes,  in  a 
snuffling  tone  curiously  at  variance  with  their  libertine 
tendency :  — 

You  fellows  East  may  sing  as  you  please, 

And  tiekle  the  scalps  of  all  concerned  ; 
You  may  cant  away  with  Cantharides, 

Rip  with  Euripides,  and  be  derncd  ! 
But  to  find  the  real  high-pressure  style, 

And  travel  the  stavingest  road  to  glory, 
You  must  go  out  West  for  a  thousand  mile, 

And  never  stop  till  you  pass  Peory. 

We  don't  prance  round  in  white  kid  gloves, 

Srnellin'  of  grease  and  sassyfrack  : 
Our  vittles  ain't  honey  and  turlle-dovcs, 

And  when  we  kiss,  it 's  a  reg'lar  smack. 
We  take  things  rough,  but  we  swaller  'em  whole  ; 

We  don't  pretend  to  be  simperin'  pious ; 
And  what  we  are  fit  for,  blast  my  soul ! 

If  you  want  to  know,  come  out  and  try  us  ! 

These  here  United  States,  they  say, 

Is  owin'  the  world  an  outfit  of  verse : 
Pike  County  '11  fix  it,  any  day, 

And  who  goes  furder  '11  fare  the  worse. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS.       173 

There 's  a  man  lives  out  on  the  peraira  thar, 
In  an  old  shebang,  as  I  've  heard  tootin', 

And  if  hisn  don't  go  through  your  hide  and  har, 
It's  my  opinion  there  '11  be  some  shootin'. 

A  wild  war-whoop  resounded  through  the  building, 
and  a  wilder  apparition  burst  upon  the  scene.  He  was 
dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  buckskin  dyed  a  fiery  red ; 
strings  of  silver  bells  tinkled  about  him  ;  his  face  was 
painted  in  broad  alternate  bands  of  green,  yellow,  and 
crimson ;  a  long  scalp-lock,  stiffened  with  eagle's  feathers, 
reached  half-way  to  the  ceiling.  [Mr.  Shanks  ordered 
this  report  to  be  strong.  I  hope  this  will  suit.  —  RE 
PORTER.]  In  a  voice  loud  enough  to  drown  the  whistle  of 
ten  locomotives,  he  read  in  a  strange  runic  chant  the  fol 
lowing  poem,  from  a  manuscript  signed  JOAQUIN,  written 
in  letters  of  blood  on  the  tanned  hide  of  a  Camanche 
princess  :  — 

Par  on  the  hot  Apache  plain 

I  sinched  the  girth  and  I  buckled  the  rein  : 

The  glorious  girl  behind  me  sang, 

But  I  sprang  to  the  saddle  without  a  pang, 

And  gave  the  spur  to  my  wild  mustang, 

And  a  coil  of  the  loose  riata's  fold 

Over  his  flanks  like  a  serpent  rolled, 

As  his  hoofs  went  forward,  and  forward,  and  on, 

Till  the  plain,  and  the  hills,  and  the  girl,  were  gone. 

The  forests  of  cactus  stabbed  and  stung, 

The  sun  beat  down  on  my  skinless  tongue, 

The  dust  was  thick  in  my  simmering  mouth, 

And  a  whirlwind  of  flame  came  out  of  the  South, 

From  the  dry  bananas,  whose  fiery  hair 


174      THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BAEDS. 

Singed  the  monkeys  and  parroquets  there. 

I  crashed  through  the  flame.  I  dashed  o'er  the  sand, 

Bearing  my  songs  in  my  red  right  hand, 

Bearing  the  songs  of  the  Western  land, 

Tender  and  glowing  and  fierce  and  grand. 

Take  them  and  read  them  and  yield  me  the  crown 

Which  the  old  Sierras  on  me  cast  down 

From  peaks  untrodden,  of  gorgeous  glare, 

Cast  down  upon  me  and  bade  me  wear ! 

And  whoso  denies  it  he  shall  be 

Struck,  and  despised,  and  spit  on,  by  me, 

As  a  loathsome  snake,  as  a  venomous  thing, 

Fit  but  to  swelter  and  crawl  and  sting, 

And  build  his  cell  in  the  rotten,  rank 

Recess  of  a  noisome  toadstool  bank, 

While  I,  like  a  hawk  in  the  splendid  sky, 

Scream  revenge  as  I  wheel  on  high, 

And  the  sound  of  my  screaming  shall  never  die ! 

OBITUARY.  —  Ananias  Longbow,  of  our  City  Depart 
ment,  yesterday  fell  or  was  thrown  from  the  third-story 
windows  of  THE  TRIBUNE  building.  No  cause  is  as 
signed  for  the  rash  act. 


A  REVIEW. 


[PUBLISHED    IN   THE  "  NEW   YORK  TRIBUNE,"  DECEMBER  4,  1875.] 

THE   INN  ALBUM.     By  ROBERT  BROWNING.     James  R. 
Osgood  &  Co. 

HAT  's  tins?     A  book?     16mo.  —  Osgood's 

page, 

Eair,  clear,  Olympian-typed,  and  save  a  scant 
0'  the  margin,  stiff  i'   the  hurried  binding, 

good ! 

Intituled  how  ?     "  The  Inn  Album,  Robert  Brown- 
ingy  Author:''     Why  should  he  not  say,  as  well, 
The  Hotel  Register  ?  — •  cis- Atlantic  term  ! 
Nay,  an  he  should,  the  action  might  purvey 
To  lower  comprehensions  :  so  not  he  ! 
Reflect,  5t  is  Browning !  —  he  neglects,  prepense, 
All  forms  of  form :  what  he  gives  must  we  take, 
Sweet,  bitter,  sour,  absinthean,  adipose, 
Conglomerate,  jellied,  potted,  salt,  or  dried, 
As  the  mood  holds  him ;  ours  is  not  to  choose ! 
Well  (here  huge  sighs  be  heard !)  commending  us 
To  Heaven's  high  mercy,  let  us  read ! 


176  A   REVIEW. 

—  Three  hours : 

The  end  is  reached ;  but  who  begins  review, 
Forgetful  oj  beginning,  with  the  end  ? 
Turn  back  !  — why,  here 's  a  line  supplies  us  with 
Curt  comment  on  the  whole,  though  travesty,  — 
Hail,  calm  obliquity,  lugubrious  plot !  — 
Yea,  since  obliquity  the  straight  path  is, 
And  Passion  worships  as  her  patron  saint 
The  Holy  Vitus,  and  from  Language,  fall 
The  rusty  chains  of  rhythm  and  harmony, 
Why  not  exclaim,  "  Hail,  sham  obliquity  !  " 
Too  hard,  you  murmur,  sweet  submissive  minds  ?- 
But  take  a  bite  o'  the  original  pie  !     Set  teeth, 
'Ware  cherry-stones,  and  if  a  herring-spine 
Stick  crosswise  i'  the  throat,  go  gulp,  shed  tears, 
But  blame  not  us  !     So  runs  the  opening  :  — 

"  That  oblong  book 's  the  Album  ;  hand  it  here  ! 
Exactly  !  page  on  page  of  gratitude 
For  breakfast,  dinner,  supper,  and  the  view  ! 
I  praise  these  poets  :  they  leave  margin-space ; 
Each  stanza  seems  to  gather  skirts  around, 
And  primly,  trimly,  keep  the  foot's  confine, 
Modest  and  maidlike  ;  lubber  prose  o'ersprawls 
And  straddling  stops  the  path  from  left  to  right. 
Since  I  want  space  to  do  my  cipher-work, 
Which  poem  spares  a  corner  ?     What  comes  first  ? 
'  Hail,  calm  acclivity,  salubrious  spot !  ' 
(Open  the  window,  we  burn  daylight,  boy  !) 
Or  see  —  succincter  beauty,  brief  and  bold  — 
*  If  a  fellow  can  dine  On,  rump  steaks  and  port  wine 
He  needs  not  despair  Of  dining  well  here  — ' 


A   REVIEW.  177 

'  Here  I '  I  myself  could  find  a  better  rhyme. 
That  bard 's  a  Browning  ;  he  neglects  the  form  ! 
But  ah,  the  sense,  ye  gods,  the  weighty  sense ! " 

This  bard 's  a  Browning  !  —  there 's  no  doubt  of  that : 

But,  ah,  ye  gods,  the  sense  !    Are  we  so  sure 

If  sense  be  sense  unto  our  common-sense, 

Low  sense  to  higher,  high  to  low,  no  sense 

All  sense  to  those,  all  sense  no  sense  to  these  ? 

That 's  where  your  poet  tells  !  — and  you  5ve  no  right 

(Insensate  sense  with  sensuous  thought  being  mixed) 

To  ask  analysis  !     How  can  else  review, 

Save  in  the  dialect  of  his  verse,  be  writ  ? 

So  write  we :  (would  we  might  foresee  the  end  ! ) 

So  has  he  taught  us,  ij  "  The  Ring  and  The  Book," 

D°  g'mtibits,  concerning  taste,  non  est 

There's  no  —  disputing,  disputandum  (Ha! 

'T  is  not  so  difficult)  — and  we  submit. 

Ring  prompter's  bell !  —  let  to  strange  music  rise 
The  curtain :  here  's  a  country  inn's  best  room ; 
The  persons,  two,  have  gambled  all  night  through, 
And  now  't  is  morning.     One  's  "  a  polished  snob," 
Young,  rich,  yet  with  rough  base  of  manliness 
(We  learn  this  afterward) ;  the  elder  man, 
A  lord,  the  meanest  scoundrel  ever  lived 
(So  we  shall  find),  "refinement  every  inch 
From  brow  to  boot-end."     Ciphers  he  in  book,  — 
No  paper  else  !  —  and,  stead  of  snob's  loss,  finds 
Himself  the  loser  by  ten  thousand  pounds  ! 
Much  dialogue  ensues,  —  the  substance  this  : 
Snob  offers  to  forgive  the  debt,  keep  mum ; 

8*  L 


178  A    REVIEW. 

With  insult  lord  refuses,  penniless 

And  overbearing.     "  Father  s  apron  still 

Sticks  out  from  son's  court-vesture  ;  still  silk  purse 

Roughs  finger  with  some  bristle  sow-ear  born  !  " 

So  speaketh  lie,  "  refinement  every  inch," 

Et  cetera.     Well,  they  pay  the  tavern  bill, 

Walk  toward  the  station,  lord  intent  to  catch 

The  morning  train  to  town,  while  snob  remains 

To  seek  a  neighbor  cousin,  possible  wife. 

To  ordinary  persons  here  were  end, 

Not  so  to  Browning-persons ;  wait  a  bit, 

And  you  '11  perceive  the  red-clawed  Tragic's  hawk 

Pounce  on  the  thoughtless  chick  of  Commonplace, 

I'  midst  o'  dunghill-blessedness  ! 

As  the  two 

Sighted  the  station,  train  un  whistled  yet, 
A  gate  invites :  what  fool  such  swinging  seat, 
Albeit  sharp  edge  to  gluteal  want  o'  pad, 
Disdaineth  ?     Thereupon  they  perch,  and  then 
Much  dialogue  ensues,  —  the  upshot  this  : 
Lord  met,  four  years  ago,  admired,  betrayed 
A  parson's  daughter,  tamely  wedded  now 
And  lost  to  him,  —  his  chance  of  life  no  less 
A  loss :  the  apple  ripe  to  hand  withheld 
Drops  and  the  swine  devour :  he  sees  it  now. 
Snob  met,  four  years  ago,  admired  and  loved, 
And  then  renounced,  the  stateliest  of  her  sex, 
A  lord  befooled,  then  married,  —  so  the  tale  : 
Four  years  —  a  parson's  daughter  —  was  't  the  same  ? 
Unmarried  I,  says  lord ;  't  is  not  the  same. 


A    REVIEW.  179 

(But  }t  was  the  same  of  course :  the  reader  sees 
Cat's-whiskers  where  the  meal  is  seeming  smooth, 
And  tadpole-tails  i'  the  mud ;)  so  talking,  train 
Whisks  past,  no  second  till  the  afternoon, 
And  lord  goes  back  to  tavern,  snob  strides  off 
To  visit  aunt  and  cousin. 

Second  scene : 

(Hail,  calm  obliquity ',  lugubrious  plot ! ) 
Enter  the  cousin  in  the  inn's  best  room, 
With  female  friend,  arrived  by  train  !     This  friend  — 
"  Superb  one,"  Browning  says,  and  we  know  whom  !  — 
Summoned  by  cousin  on  the  snob  to  hold, 
Privately,  judgment ;  should  she  wed  or  not  ? 
Much  dialogue  ensues,  —  no  substance  now, 
Mere  beating  round  the  bush,  but  one  grows  pale, 
The  other  wonders,  —  reader,  haply,  thinks 
The  Devil 's  to  pay  when  all  together  meet ! 

Superb  one  left  alone,  comes  back  my  lord, 
Seeing  not  first  the  Jady  watching  elm 
At  window,  takes  the  "  Inn  Album,"  opens  page, 
And  (Heaven  knows  why  !)  reads  once  again : 
"Hail,  calm  acclivity,  salubrious  spot  f" 
Thereat,  explosions :  with  "  black-blooded  brow  " 
The  lady  fronts  him,  — hate,  defiance,  rage, 
Burn,  spit,  hiss,  boil,  and  bubble  in  her  speech. 
Then  he,  in  turn,  "  refinement  every  inch 
From  brow  to  boot-end,"  answers  thus :  — 

"  So,  I  it  was  allured  you  —  only  I  — 
I,  and  none  other  —  to  this  spectacle  — 


180  A    REVIEW. 

Your  triumph,  my  despair  —  you  woman  fiend 

That  front  me  !     Well,  I  have  my  wish,  then  !     See 

The  low  wide  brow  oppressed  by  sweeps  of  hair 

Darker  and  darker  as  they  coil  and  swathe 

The  crowned  corpse-wanness  whence  the  eyes  burn  black. 

Not  asleep  now !  not  pin-points  dwarfed  beneath 

Either  great  bridging  eyebrow  —  poor  blank  beads  — 

Babies,  I  've  pleased  to  pity  in  my  time : 

How  they  protrude  and  glow  immense  with  hate ! 

The  long  triumphant  nose  attains  —  retains 

Just  the  perfection  ;  and  there  's  scarlet-skein 

My  ancient  enemy,  her  lip  and  lip, 

Sense-free,  sense-frighting  lips  clenched  cold  and  bold 

Because  of  chin,  that  based  resolved  beneath  ! 

Then  the  columnar  neck  completes  the  whole 

Greek -sculpture-baffling  body  !     Do  I  see? 

Can  I  observe  ?     You  wait  next  word  to  come  ? 

Well,  wait  and  want !  since  no  one  blight  I  bid 

Consume  one  least  perfection.     Each  and  all, 

As  they  are  rightly  shocking  now  to  me, 

So  may  they  still  continue  !     Value  them  ? 

Ay,  as  the  vender  knows  the  money-worth 

Of  his  Greek  statue,  fools  aspire  to  buy, 

And  he  to  see  the  back  of !     Let  us  laugh  ! 

You  have  absolved  me  from  my  sin  at  least ! 

You  stand  stout,  strong,  in  the  rude  health  of  hate, 

No  touch  of  the  tame  timid  nullity 

My  cowardice,  forsooth,  has  practised  on ! 

Ay,  while  you  seemed  to  hint  some  fine  fifth  act 

Of  tragedy  should  freeze  blood,  end  the  farce, 

I  never  doubted  all  was  joke.     I  kept, 

May  be,  an  eye  alert  on  paragraphs, 

Newspaper  notice  —  let  no  inquest  slip, 


A   REVIEW.  181 

Of  CAUFOR 

Accident,  disappearance :  sound  and  safe 
Were  you,  my  victim,  not  of  mind  to  die !  " 

Answer  to  tins  brutality  (when  we 

Think  who  and  what  the  two,  abominable !) 

Vouchsafes  she,  —  story  of  her  wedded  life, 

Husband  a  country  curate,  stupidly 

Yet  most  devoutly  saving  stupid  souls, 

Whose  interests  she,  this  goddess  in  the  flesh, 

Endures  in  ennui  killing  heart  and  brain, 

Life  grown  a  hell,  save  for  defiant  pride 

To  answer  him,  —  yea,  wild,  illogical, 

She  moves  us  somewhat.     Hearken  now  to  him, 

Who  thus  speaks,  after  insult :  — 

"  God  forgives ; 

Forgive  you,  delegate  of  God,  brought  near 
As  never  priest  could  bring  him  to  this  soul 
That  prays  you  both  —  forgive  me !     I  abase  — 
Know  myself  mad  and  monstrous  utterly 
In  all  I  did  that  moment ;  but  as  God 
Gives  me  this  knowledge  —  heart  to  feel  and  tongue 
To  testify  —  so  be  you  gracious  too ! 
Judge  no  man  by  the  solitary  work 
Of — well,  they  do  say  and  I  can  believe  — 
The  devil  in  him :  his,  the  moment,  —  mine 
The  life  —  your  life ! 

He  names  her  name  again. 
You  were  just  —  merciful  as  just,  you  were 
In  giving  me  no  respite  :  punishment 
Followed  offending.     Sane  and  sound  once  more, 
The  patient  thanks  decision,  promptitude, 
Which  flung  him  prone  and  fastened  him  from  hurt 


182  A   REVIEW. 

Haply  to  others,  surely  to  himself. 

I  wake  and  would  not  you  had  spared  one  pang. 

All's  well  that  ends  well!" 

And  so  on,  for  the  space  of  ninety  lines, 

The  brute  and  blackguard  mouths  his  lyric  love, 

Palls  on  his  knees,  abases  to  the  dust 

His  haughty  selfishness.     To  which  relapse 

This  much  (much  else  omitted)  is  the  pith 

Of  her  reply :  — 

"  You  are  the  Adversary ! 

Your  fate  is  of  your  choosing:  have  your  choice! 

Wander  the  world,  —  God  has  some  end  to  serve, 

Ere  he  suppress  you !     He  waits :  I  endure, 

But  interpose  no  finger-tip,  forsooth, 

To  stop  your  passage  to  the  pit.     Enough 

That  I  am  stahle,  uninvolved  hy  you 

In  the  rush  downward :  free  I  gaze  and  fixed ; 

Your  smiles,  your  tears,  prayers,  curses  move  alike 

My  crowned  contempt.     You  kneel  ?     Prostrate  yourself 

To  earth,  and  would  the  whole  world  saw  you  there ! " 

A  step  :  a  voice  "  All  right !  "  outside ;  the  snob 

Comes  back  a-sudden,  pushes  wide  the  door, 

Sees  kneeler,  kneeled-to,  deeply  breathes  an  "  Ah-h  !  " 

—  True  melodrama !     Take  this  pur-r-rse  of  gold, 

Me  hated  rival :  in  another  l-l-land 

'T  will  make  thee  r-r-rich  !    You  're  wrong,  my  eager 

f-f-friend, 

Dead  out  oj  reckoning !     What  says  the  snob, 
Whom  scattered  evidence  of  manliness 
Made  seem  a  man  ?     No  explanation  sought, 


A    REVIEW.  183 

He  belches  bile  and  gall,  stirs  gutter-filth, 

Names  "bag  and  baggage,"  " friend-and-goddess  love," 

Insults,  bespatters,  rages.     She,  between, 

Soothes  him,  defies  the  other ;  then  this  last, 

His  knees  still  dusty  from  the  abject  prayer, 

Again  is  devil.     (Hark  ye,  here  's  the  dodge 

To  cook  original  passion :  what  men  do 

Don't  let  them  do,  and  what  they  never  do 

Do :  none  can  guess  what  next  shall  hap  i'  the  tale ; 

Passion  is  incoherent,  and  you  've  still 

Nature  to  fall  upon.)     This  Album-book  — 

Hail,  sham  obliquity,  lugubrious  plot  ! 

Is  wellnigh  read ;  you  end  the  tangle,  smash ! 

Here  's  Browning's  reeipe ;  take  heaps  o'  hate, 

Take  boundless  love,  hydraulic-pressed,  in  bales, 

Distilinents  keen  of  baseness  and  of  pride, 

And  innocence  and  cunning,  —  mix  'ern  well, 

And  put  a  body  round  'em  !     Add  the  more 

O'  this,  or  that,  you  have  another,  —  stay  ! 

The  sex  don't  count ;  make  female  of  the  male, 

Male  female,  all  the  better ;  let  them  meet, 

Talk,  love,  hate,  cross,  till  satisfied  —  then,  kill ! 

So  here  :  lord,  finding  situation  tough 

(Between  two  fires,  hate  and  a  horsewhip-threat), 

Writes  i'  the  Album,  goes  without  and  waits. 

Superb  One,  having  read,  takes  hand  of  snob, 

Accepts  his  love  till  death ;  then  lord  comes  back. 

What  did  he  write  ?     "  Refinement  every  inch 

From  brow  to  boot-end,"  Jt  was  a  threat  to  tell 

The  country  curate  of  his  wife's  disgrace,  — 

He,  the  disgracer !     Snob  gets  wild  at  that, 

Screams,  jumps,  and  clutches 


184  A   REVIEW. 

All  at  once  we  see 

One  character  dead  —  but  how,  we  don't  quite  know. 
Then  she,  Superb  One,  writes  in  Album,  dies 
By  force  of  will,  (no  hint  of  instrument !) 
Leaving  the  snob  alone  and  much  surprised. 
Cousin  is  heard  without ;  but  ere  the  door 
Opens,  the  story  closes.     Only  this  remains, 
The  last  conundrum,  hardly  guessable 
By  the  unbrowninged  mind.     Since  what  it  means, 
If  aught  the  meaning,  means  some  other  thing 
And  that  thing  something  else,  but  this  not  that, 
Nor  that  the  other,  —  we  adopt  the  lines 
As  most  expressing  what  we  fail  express, 
Our  solemn  verdict,  handkerchief  and  all, 
Upon  the  book  :  we  quote,  with  grateful  heart :  — 

"  All 's  ended  and  all 's  over !     Verdict  found 
*  Not  guilty '  —  prisoner  forthwith  set  free, 
Mid  cheers  the  Court  pretends  to  disregard! 
Now  Portia,  now  for  Daniel,  late  severe, 
At  last  appeased,  benignant !     '  This  young  man  — 
Hem  —  has  the  young  man's  foilles  but  no  faulty 
He  's  virgin  soil —  a  friend  must  cultivate. 
I  think  no  plant  called  "  love  "  grows  wild  —  a  friend 
May  introduce,  and  name  the  bloom,  the  fruit ! ' 
Here  somebody  dares  wave  a  handkerchief  — 
She  '11  want  to  hide  her  face  with  presently ! 
Good  by  then !     '  Cignofedel,  cignofedel, 
Addio  I '     Now,  was  ever  such  mistake  — 
Ever  such  foolish  ugly  omen  ?     Pshaw ! 
Wagner  beside  1     '  Amo  te  solo,  te 
Solo  amai  I '     That 's  worth  fifty  such ! 
But,  mum,  the  grave  face  at  the  open  door ! " 


A   REVIEW.  185 

The  meaning  ask  you,  O  ingenuous  soul  ? 
Why,  were  there  such  for  you,  what  then  were  left 
To  puzzle  brain  with,  pump  conjecture  dry, 
And  prove  you  little  where  the  poet *s  great  ? 
Great  must  he  be,  you  therefore  little :  —  go  ! 
The  curtain  falls,  the  caudles  are  snuffed  out : 
End,  damned  obliquity,  lugubrious  plot ! 


PARADISE  DISCOVERED. 


AN   EPIC. 

Pork  and  Beans,  which  from  the  primal  East, 
Beyond  the  Indian  Mount,  where  early  tricks 
Her  purfled  scarf  old  Tithon's  paramour, 
And  Arimaspean  giants,  famed  of  old, 
Ravaged  the  Scythian  plains,  the  nations  bore 
Westward  to  Celtic  and  the  Saxon  fields, 
And  thence  o'er  dangers  of  the  glistering  seas 
To  bloom,  transplanted,  on  New  England  soil, 
I  sing :  and  thou,  who  givest  ample  food 
To  palates  sated  with  Parisian  feasts, 
Apician  god,  whether  thy  feet  be  stayed 
In  markets  vast,  beside  the  minted  lamb, 
Or  from  the  fumes  of  savory  coppers  tak'st 
Delight  of  boiling  beef,  commend  my  song, 
And  raise  it  to  that  height  of  argument 
Which  makes  the  theme,  full  humble  though  it  be, 
Grander  than  strains  of  old  Mseonides. 
Eor  I  upon  that  famous  dish  was  nurst, 
Scoffed  at  ere  while,  whose  now  acknowledged  worth 
The  round  world  echoes,  —  whence  increase  of  use, 


PARADISE    DISCOVERED.  187 

And  pseans  louder  than  the  orby  clang 
Of  shields  at  Radamont  or  Mandragore, 
Or  where  Biscayan  bulwarks  front  the  wave 
Trebonian,  or  of  Syrtis  by  Gyrene 
Borasmian  thunders  :  nor  no  lesser  joy, 
Though  silent,  cheek  distent  with  pungent  weed, 
Feel  Siasconset's  fishers,  homeward  blown 
From  broad  Hyannis  and  the  shoaling  sands, 
When  all  the  air,  from  every  chimney-flue, 
Breathes  odors  of  the  Dish  ;  and  each  his  own 
With  practised  nostril  from  the  steamy  twine 
Untangles.     Hail !  thou  bright,  warm  effluence ! 
Hail,  wedded  nourishment !  — 

(Cetera  desunt,  owing  to  the  precipitate  flight  of  the  indignant 
Muse.) 


Cambridge :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


14  DAY  USE 

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